


Winter

by AllTheBellsInVenice



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, Anal Play, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bathing/Washing, Bisexual Sherlock, Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Car porn not even sorry, Complete, Dirty Talk, Dom!Sherlock, Exhibitionism, Explicit Consent, F/M, Intercrural Sex, Negotiations, Now Brit-picked, OC: Bridget, OC: Indra, Oral Sex, Possessive!Sherlock, Protective!Sherlock, Pushing limits, Rimming, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlolly - Freeform, Shibari, Spanking, Toys, hand holding, its for an experiment molly, kinky lingerie, knifeplay (bloodless), sherlock has sex with everything basically, sub space, wanton acts of styling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:33:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 71,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1382554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheBellsInVenice/pseuds/AllTheBellsInVenice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Oh, dating.</i> Romance. <i>Ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped. “Asking you to have </i>coffee<i>,” he spat the word, “would have been pure prevarication, given my intentions. Massive waste of time. I’m not interested in playing out some meaningless script of conventional courtship.” Sherlock drew even closer, too close, until his voice grated in Molly’s ear. “I am interested in holding you down and doing incredibly filthy things to you. And making you enjoy every moment of it.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place near the end of _His Last Vow._ Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Now with Brit-picking from the gracious aberlioness!

Molly was starting to nod over the last of her paperwork when _he_ strode into the lab, long coat flowing, a few snowflakes still caught in his dark hair.

“Sherlock,” Molly said, suddenly wide awake. “How did you get in? The department has been closed for hours. Everyone has gone home.”

Sherlock’s eyes cast quickly down the length of the empty room and back to the pathologist. “A few locked doors and a couple of alarms do not signify, Molly. Surely you know that by now.”

Molly pursed her lips, pleased in spite of herself that the detective (her detective, as she sometimes dared to think of him) had circumvented security to come and see her. He’d only just got out of hospital after being shot, and it was lovely to see him dashing around again. 

“I suppose you won’t tell me how you got in?” Molly asked, trying to be stern with him but feeling a smile creep onto her face. 

“You suppose correctly,” he said in his commanding baritone. “Molly, I need your help with an experiment. Now.”

“Oh.” Molly put down her pen, but then thought of how furious her boss would be if he found out that she had once more broken the longstanding “no Sherlock Holmes after hours” rule. She had to put him off, but how?

“I, um, I cleared away all my equipment already, so---“

“Not a problem,” Sherlock cut in, smiling tightly. “The experiment I have in mind is psychosocial in nature.”

Mystified, Molly slid off the tall chair. “Psychosocial. Not exactly up your street, is it, that sort of thing?”

“I gather the data I need, when I need it. Now clear a space on the counter, about a meter square.” A directive, not a request. “Wherever’s most convenient,” he added generously, keeping his own hands in his pockets.

Molly blinked once, then started clearing away part of the long lab counter. Well, imperious as always. She really should mind it more than she did. 

As she set down the last beaker, Sherlock continued, “I need you for this experiment, Molly. A case study, really. I want to make a few observations with you as my subject.”

“Me?” 

“Yes. You.” His ice-blue gaze focused in on her, and Molly knew he was cataloguing every reflexive tensing of her muscles, every nervous intake of breath. Molly felt herself pinned under the force of Sherlock’s eyes, and knew that his experiment had already begun.

Casually, with one foot, Sherlock pushed a stepstool a few inches over so that it was right in front of the cleared area. “Remove your shoes and your lab coat, step onto the first step, and face the counter,” he said.

More orders. Well, all right, Molly told herself. It was far from the weirdest thing he had ever required from her. She smiled as she remembered his casual inquiry after an edentate head and a left forearm with a recently healed compound radial fracture, both from the same cadaver. Whatever he had in mind couldn’t possibly compare.

Molly toed off her sensible shoes, laid aside her lab coat, and stepped onto the stepstool in her stocking feet. Sherlock was watching her closely, his eyes raking down her body. She felt a blush spreading up her neck, and knew that he must be noting it.

“Yes, that will work. Now, bend over onto the countertop.”

“Sherlock, what…” Molly turned curiously. Distractedly, she noticed that he was still just a little taller than her, despite the stepstool.

“Face down, on the counter, Molly. I need data.” His voice grew softer, deeper, almost tender. “I need to observe your reactions. Will you help me, Molly? Please.”

Molly couldn’t resist that voice. She obeyed him, bending over the counter and resting her head on her arms. It was not uncomfortable; the stepstool placed the hinge of her hips precisely at the counter’s edge. “And I suppose someone’s life depends on this data? Somehow?” she asked, her voice squeaking just a bit.

She heard Sherlock chuckle behind her.

Moments passed. Molly listened, but the lab around her was silent. It seemed that Sherlock was simply standing still, observing. Perhaps this---whatever it was---was all he wanted?

But Sherlock spoke into the silence.

“Molly. Raise your skirt.”

A pause. She could not see his face, but she could feel his gaze like a weight on her body.

“Sherlock.” Molly spoke urgently. “What are you doing? Why---why do you want me to do this?” She was…not afraid, precisely…but her body was aglow with the strangeness of her position, such a vulnerable position, and of him looming so close behind her. 

“Do you trust me, Molly?”

“I...yes.” 

She felt the rustle of his coat on one side of her body as he bent over her. His face came into view, inches from hers.

“Molly, I want you to know that you are safe with me, always. I will do nothing to harm you. You will help me be the judge of that.” 

Her body thrilled to his nearness, the faint scent of his hair, and the feel of his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. 

“I will stop everything and draw away from you immediately whenever you say the word ‘skull.’ Anytime you like.” He watched her face carefully. “I may also require the word from you, and then I will stop if you _fail_ to say it. Say ‘skull’ now, Molly.”

“Skull,” she replied, steadily holding his eyes.

“Again.”

“Skull,” she said, a little louder. He would stop “everything” if she said this word? 

His eyes crinkled with pleasure. “Good girl.” His face disappeared, and she felt him stand upright, still behind her, his gloved hand always on the small of her back. 

“So, now, raise your skirt. This too is necessary.”

A deep breath, and another. Yes, she trusted him. Molly drew her hands down to her waist and pulled her skirt up over her bottom. Sherlock’s hand lifted for a moment, tucking the excess fabric underneath her and then returning, possessively, to the small of her back.

“Now lower your tights…and take down your pants with them. ”

Her blood thundered in her ears. 

Molly took a breath, and reminded herself that she really was safe, that she could always say “skull” anytime she pleased, and always trust Sherlock to respect it. And she realized something more. With a molten rush of heat to her face, she knew that she wanted to obey him. That she burned to show Sherlock, beautiful brilliant Sherlock, her bare bottom.

As if in a dream, she slowly, slowly pulled her final layers down over her arse, her face blazing hot against the cool countertop, legs trembling.

Molly felt Sherlock’s hand move on her back, just a fraction of an inch. Surely he was now inspecting her white bum and pink folds. She tried to keep her bottom lifted high for him, knowing there was no hiding from his gaze. No need to be Sherlock Holmes to see how aroused she had become. Never in her life had she been so excited, not even that time at uni when her boyfriend had tied her to his bed and…

“Ah,” Sherlock said, his voice somehow different. “Beautiful, Molly. You’re doing beautifully. See if you can reach your arms up and hold onto the other side of the counter. Yes, well done.”

The hand at the small of her back moved downward. His gloved fingers cupped her right buttock, then her left. His large hand spanned her arse, pressing her cheeks together. Molly could not help it; she heard herself making a faint keening sound as his hand moved her bum from side to side, experimentally.

“Lovely, Molly. And...what’s this?...So...very...wet.” 

Molly couldn’t help herself; she moaned softly. With those words, Sherlock had brought into the open air the undeniable carnality of his experiment. As if stepping outside herself, Molly saw the scene: the slight woman bent over the counter with her pants around her thighs, the tall man just behind her, icy eyes focused on her naked bottom. The image shimmered in the lights behind Molly’s eyes.

Inexorably, Sherlock’s thumb moved into the cleft between her buttocks.

“So exquisitely wet, Molly. Like a pink rose dipped in oil...and look, a sweet pink rosebud to match,” he said, his thumb tugging at the skin a scant inch to the side of her tiniest opening. 

Molly shivered. No one had yet touched her there.

“And so sensitive. Yes.”

Sherlock’s hand drew away. Molly whimpered, bereft.

“Quiet,” he snapped, making Molly jump. “I’m removing my gloves now. There,” he said, his voice gentle once more, and she felt his hand again, now sliding almost chastely down her hip. His bare skin against hers. “That’s better, isn’t it.” She felt his other hand now, soothing, as he slowly stroked her white arse and thighs.

“So lovely, Molly. And you’re being so brave, so brave for me.” His fingers quested. “This experiment is an important one. Precise observations are crucial to my inquiry. What would I observe, I wonder, if I touched you…here?”

And Sherlock’s cool, clever fingers slowly stroked into the hot folds of her cunt.

“Oh. Ah ha. Ah ha ha!” Molly was astounded to hear herself laughing as pleasure seared her. 

From the moment Sherlock had directed her to bend over the counter, her body had warmed to his orders, his domineering voice, his aura of power. Molly Hooper was a professional woman, a fully qualified doctor, a noted researcher in her field. But even so, here, tonight, she was squirming on a lab counter as Sherlock took her unprotesting body firmly in hand. 

Sherlock slipped a finger deep into her body. And another. Helplessly, Molly lifted her hips, silently begging for more fullness, more pressure. Sherlock teased her instead, drawing his fingers out and swirling two fingertips around her swollen bud.

“Classic female sexual response. Vasocongestion and blushing of the vulva. Lengthening of the vaginal canal. Clitoris slips out of hiding. Lubrication…such a quantity, Molly. Any interest in saying your word? I thought not.” He cupped her cunt with his whole hand, wicked fingers still rolling over her most sensitive area.

“Lift up that pretty behind for me. Higher.”

Deliriously, Molly obeyed. What else was there?

Moments passed, and Molly felt his other hand roaming over her arse, his hand between her legs never still. Sherlock was stroking her with undeniable skill, observing her responses, noting the touches that made her squirm and sigh. Time slowed, and Molly’s whole world narrowed in on the coolness of the countertop under her breasts, the faint sounds of Sherlock’s exhalations behind her, the molten pleasure in her cunt.

Finally, she felt Sherlock leaning over her, pinning her body to the countertop. 

“You like being under me, little Molly? Give me your word or I’ll stop.”

“Skull!” Molly cried. “Oh god, Sherlock…”

The fabric of his coat covered them both---his clothed erection almost painful against her hip---a gathering tightness deep in her belly, a warning---

“Come for me, Molly. Yes. There we are,” Sherlock said, as Molly turned her head and screamed into her arm. Helpless, she rode out the sharp ripples of her orgasm, trapped under the delicious weight of Sherlock’s body.

“Oh, good girl. My good girl,” he said, rather breathlessly, caressing her soft arse, her hip. She felt him rest his head on her shoulder.

Molly shifted under him, slowly coming back to herself. Sherlock was supporting his own weight now, but was still arched over her. His hand cradled her pussy, shielding her warm wetness from the chilly air of the lab. 

Molly’s mind drifted. She knew she ought to be feeling...something...but just couldn’t be bothered at the moment. Molly let her eyes close, and relaxed. She and Sherlock breathed together. 

After long minutes, she felt him stir, pushing off her, his hand finally coming away. She turned her head, catching a white flash of fabric out of the corner of her eye just as he said, “No. Eyes forward.” His voice was cool and even again.

Molly obeyed, puzzled, her gaze wandering across the counter and over grey cabinets, cold glassware.

“Thank you, Molly,” Sherlock said. “We shall talk...later.”

She felt him step back, drawing away from her, and confusion arose like a fog. She tried to obey him and keep her eyes forward, but as she heard more footsteps, she gave in to curiosity and furtively peeked to the side. She saw Sherlock from the back as he walked calmly away, wiping his hand on the white handkerchief and whipping it back into his pocket. Molly’s confusion deepened as she watched Sherlock open the door, keeping his face turned away, and leave the lab.

Molly collapsed bonelessly back onto the counter, oddly relieved, her body and mind suddenly heavy with fatigue. After a time, she reached back to pull up her pants.

An hour later, just as Molly was about to slip into a candlelit bath to enjoy the silky water and process the events of the evening, she heard her phone chime. 

_I trust you got safely home.  
SH_

Molly smiled with one corner of her mouth. 

_Yes I did._

Molly paused, then sent another reply.

_So, you really have to tell me. What was that experiment all about?_

_If you care to continue, come to Baker Street tomorrow, 16:00. Wear a skirt._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with Brit-picking by the lovely aberlioness!

At precisely 3:59 pm the next day, Molly climbed the stairs to 221B Baker Street, excitement quickening her steps, questions fluttering inside her like caged butterflies. When she opened the door to the main room, Sherlock was looking out the window, hands in his pockets. 

“You are 30 seconds early, Molly. Lock the door behind you, please. Mrs Hudson has been making vague threats of invasion...something about the refrigerator and undiluted bleach.”

“I’ve never seen this door locked before,” Molly said as she moved to obey, going around to the side to lock the kitchen door as well. Sherlock had built a fire in the grate; the room was dim and rather too warm after the bright, bracing cold of the winter afternoon. 

“I’ve never particularly cared about privacy or the illusion of safety, but have learned to make no assumptions about others.” Sherlock turned toward her, a smile in his eyes. “Molly. I’m glad you’ve come. Though I knew you would, of course.” 

“Did you? I wasn’t so sure, myself,” Molly told him, shuffling from foot to foot, unsure of where to stand. 

“Tell me,” Sherlock said.

“Well, what you did to me last night...it was...good. But it was rather presumptuous of you, Sherlock.”

“To say the least,” he said, his smile gone. 

“Why did you do it, Sherlock?" The words rushed out of her. “We’ve known each other for years, and you’ve always known. How I feel. Why did you do that...the way you did?”

“It was an experiment. And of course, I’ve been highly aware of your feelings. But it took me a long time to really understand you, Molly.”

Sherlock crossed the room, the lines of his lean body outlined in the shaft of sunlight. 

“For several years now, I have watched you, and wondered. Here before me stands a woman who was once the youngest histopathologist ever to qualify in the UK, and is now a noted researcher who publishes regularly in respected journals. Highly esteemed by her colleagues, treasured by her friends, pursuing her own very specific professional goals. A woman from a poor family who now owns a flat in central London, with money in the bank besides.”

“How did you know---“

“And yet, here before me stands a woman who, between her research projects and pathology rotas, somehow finds time to help a certain rather demanding detective whenever he appears; in fact, she happily serves my every whim. She extends no such extraordinary accommodation to anyone else; I checked. A woman who risked her career to save my life, because I asked. A woman who bent over her own lab counter and dropped her knickers for no other reason than because I, Sherlock Holmes, told her to do so. What do you make of that, Molly?”

She was silent. Her racing pulse was surely visible at her throat.

Sherlock took another step toward her, covering her in his shadow. “You know I have a, shall we say, authoritative nature. When I first met you, I noticed that you responded to me almost instinctively.”

“You’re like no one else I’ve ever known,” Molly said, her eyes hot. “So...demanding, so...inexorable. It’s like being pulled along by a river.”

“And you rather enjoy being swept along, don’t you.”

“As long as I’m not actually in danger, yes.” Molly held his eyes. “I trusted you last night, Sherlock. But it was very...sudden.”

“You know my methods, Molly. Last night I observed you carefully, and saw confusion and startlement, but no anxiety. If I’d seen any indication of fear, anger or disgust, I would have stopped instantly, you know. And in the unlikely event that I had missed something, I knew you would use your safeword. I never work without one, even though a safeword is almost beside the point when you’re under Sherlock Holmes. Almost.”

Molly reflected. He was right; she’d been shocked, but she’d never wanted him to stop. 

“I also saw trust, and even...joy. That was my experiment, Molly. I prefer a direct approach, which facilitated observation of your spontaneous reactions to my demands. And last night you were surprised, but you chose to trust me, and you enjoyed yourself. Very definitely.”

“I did. But still, Sherlock! You just barged into Bart’s, pulled down my pants and…”

“I have very little patience with social niceties, as you are surely aware. I am a man of extremely…particular tastes, Molly. In a sexual partner, I need a person who complements those tastes in several very specific ways. Few people can hold my attention, much less my fancy. But you, Molly...you.”

With a perfect assurance that stunned Molly, Sherlock closed the distance between them, reached out, and laced his fingers into her hair. He gripped her hair firmly by the roots and turned her head to look into her face.

“I respect your expertise, your intellectual accomplishment. I admire your kindness and your courage. I find you beautiful, in your delicate sort of way. I recognize that your patience with my eccentricities is unusual. Not least,” Sherlock said, tightening his grip, “your obvious appreciation for erotic submission suits my own requirements.”

Through her arousal, Molly noticed that Sherlock wasn’t smiling, nor was he trying to charm or wheedle. To Sherlock, these were bald statements of fact. It didn’t make them any less nice to hear. Her scalp tingled.

“John Watson taught me to appreciate the value of human interaction for its own sake, and having you near is...pleasant. While I was recovering from the gunshot wound, you were much on my mind. And having come to the conclusion that I want you, and given the fact that a discreet interval has now elapsed since your engagement ended, I see no reason why I should not begin to enjoy you as soon as possible.”

Molly felt something unclench deep within her. To her dismay, her vision blurred, and two fat tears fell down her face. Sherlock loosened his grip on her scalp and gathered her to himself; she tried not to snuffle into the expensive fabric of his suit jacket. 

Presently he drew away and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Molly glanced at it doubtfully. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s not the handkerchief from last night, Molly.”

She laughed shakily and accepted it, feeling a bit self-conscious. She wished he wouldn’t watch her so narrowly as she blew her nose.

“You know, Sherlock,” Molly ventured, “most people at least ask the other person to go for coffee before…you know…doing this whole, ah, lab counter bit.”

“Oh, dating. _Romance._ Ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped. “Asking you to have _coffee,_ ” he spat the word, “would have been pure prevarication, given my intentions. Massive waste of time. I’m not interested in playing out some meaningless script of conventional courtship.” Sherlock drew even closer, too close, until his voice grated in Molly’s ear. “I _am_ interested in holding you down and doing incredibly filthy things to you. And making you enjoy every moment of it.”

Molly swayed in his arms. 

Sherlock smirked at her reaction. “Yes, dating, dull. Like I said: prevarication and obfuscation, a facade of best behavior soon to be dropped. Do you honestly believe me capable of playing the gallant suitor? Can you see me…oh, what is it that people do. Oh yes. Bringing _flowers_? And how many dates is the accepted minimum before it’s considered proper to take a partner to bed, much less explore the sexual submission I require?”

Molly’s body thrilled at hearing Sherlock’s velvety voice saying “sexual submission.” He was right, in a way: flowers did seem rather boring in comparison. But...

Molly drew away from him, taking his wrist and moving his hand out of her hair. “Okay. I don’t expect normal dating behavior from Sherlock Holmes. I understand that. It’s fine. But you know, Sherlock, you used to...manipulate me. Use my feelings to get what you wanted. And there were times...not recently...that you were rather horrible, you know. You said things that really hurt me. That have been hard to forget.”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, bending his head. “I know. I remember. It was usually when I was impatient to get on with a case, or irritated with the entire situation, though that’s no excuse. I was cynical about emotion, about what I believed was your shallow infatuation. I am sorry. Forgive me.”

Molly considered this. “And how do you feel about emotion now? About...love?” 

Sherlock's face grew still, and he turned slowly away. As the silence lengthened, Molly felt dread creeping into her belly. Finally, Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke without turning around.

“Like I said, I think highly of you, Molly. I would say that I regard you as…very special. But I can’t honestly say that I have ever been in love, nor do I wish to be. I’ve come to recognize that there is a valid place for such emotions in the lives of others. But as for myself, my ability to remain objective, and to stay focused on my work, must always come first.”

Molly swallowed.

“I will not be your boyfriend, Molly. I will give you pleasure, of course. I can offer you sexual exclusivity, and a promise to provide you with the best of care during our sessions. But it’s not in my nature to be a reliable source of emotional intimacy. And, of course, I’m wildly unsuited to act as your partner in any kind of...social capacity. Molly, think carefully. Is this acceptable to you?”

Molly’s heart ached at his honesty, and she knew that the safe, sensible thing would be to walk away from him. But there was only ever one answer that she could give. 

“Yes, Sherlock. Yes, I can live with that.” She’d have to find a way. She had other sources of support, and she wanted to explore the possibilities he’d opened up to her. Yes, she told herself. She didn’t need emotional validation of her desire. She’d do just what she wanted for once; she was strong enough to handle whatever Sherlock Holmes could do to her.

Sherlock turned around to face her, and nodded. “Thank you. We’ll revisit the topic if it becomes a problem for you.” 

Something about that irritated Molly, but Sherlock kept going. 

“Speaking of communication, Molly, I often like to preserve the element of surprise while I’m dominating my partner, rather than planning every detail with them in advance. Based on your reactions last night, I believe you may also enjoy this approach. Am I correct?”

“I...yes, I think so,” Molly said. “As long as your plans aren’t too extreme. Not that I really know what that means, when you get right down to it.”

“Definitions vary. We’ll find out more as we proceed. And of course, there’s always your safeword.” 

Sherlock’s eyes turned dark. “So. All this talk has left me rather eager. Molly Hooper, I want to make you come, tonight. Shall we begin?” 

Such things he said. Molly felt the glow of anticipation flare in her belly, but she had one more question. “Sherlock, this may seem silly, but are you experienced with this sort of thing?”

“Yes, Molly, quite a silly question. And yes. Very experienced. You may find my tastes rather... cultivated at times. By which I mean difficult.”

Molly shivered, but looked at him steadily. “Try me.”

“Oh, I will. Now, Molly, your face is flushed. I want you out of all that winter clothing.” He leaned casually against the table and crossed his arms, clearly settling in to watch her undress. 

Molly was amazed to find her shyness rise up and evaporate under his white-hot gaze. Eager to obey, Molly shucked off her scarf, coat and shoes, then struggled for a moment with the top button of her blouse. 

“Quickly, Molly. Break the button if you have to; I’m not feeling very patient today. And don’t forget to take your hair down.” 

Molly triumphed over the stubborn button, then started piling her clothes on what she thought of as John Watson’s armchair, though John didn't live here anymore, of course. As required, she’d worn a skirt, but that went on John’s armchair as well. Perhaps he’d just wanted to see whether she’d follow orders. 

Sherlock’s eyes were locked on her at every moment; peering over, she saw him take a heavy breath as she opened her bra for him. Finally Molly stepped out of her lacy pants and stood naked before Sherlock, just as she’d imagined so many times. Teasingly, she reached up with both hands and pulled her hair out of its ponytail, arching her breasts toward him. She tossed her head and smiled proudly as it fell around her bare shoulders. 

Sherlock moved in, prowling toward her like a hunter. “Ah. Look at you,” he purred, circling behind her. “Oh, Molly.” He lifted the heavy drape of her hair and inhaled the scent of her nape. She sighed, arching her neck for him as he nuzzled behind her ear.

“That was obviously your prettiest set of bra and pants, but you need no decoration. Look at these sweet little breasts,” he said, bending to inspect them. Clever hands caressed her flesh. “So pink...As above, so below.” He blew hard on her nipples. Molly gasped, and Sherlock chuckled. 

“Oh, you’re a tender one. I’m going to enjoy you. Now, stay right here and face the windows. I’ll put the kettle on.” 

Had she heard him correctly? It seemed so, since he’d sprung past her into the kitchen in a burst of energy. Molly heard clattering china, the rush of water in the sink, and the click of an electric kettle. Sherlock even began humming happily as he bustled about, clearly getting tea things ready. Why, yes, Molly thought. It’s actually the old-fashioned tea-time. 

As she waited, Molly realized that even though she was naked, she was perfectly comfortable in the warm room; Sherlock had turned up the heat and built a fire so that she wouldn’t be chilly. Molly beamed at the window and relaxed a bit more.

Finally, Sherlock brushed past her with a tray. “Now then,” he said, setting down the tea set and what looked like an unusually scrumptious array of bite-sized treats. Molly saw petits fours, little flaky biscuits and miniature tea cakes. 

Sherlock turned to her and let his eyes wander down her body, deliberately insolent, for a long moment before giving his next order. "Seat yourself beside my chair, by the fire.”

Molly moved toward the spot he pointed to, the fireplace tile baking warm under her bare feet. In the cosy nook between Sherlock’s chair and the fireplace, Molly spied a thick, luxurious sheepskin, arranged into a sort of nest and clearly placed there in advance for her. She sighed with enjoyment as she sank down into its soft depths. 

“Kneel, facing me,” Sherlock instructed as he sat down in his chair. “I’m going to pour you a cup.” 

Molly watched happily as he prepared the tea just the way she liked it: a little milk, plenty of sugar. Sherlock picked up the teacup, but ignored her as she reached out for it automatically. Instead, he took a fine linen napkin from the tray. He held it under her chin as he carefully tipped the cup toward her mouth. 

Molly sipped, enjoying his attentiveness and control as well as the tea. Sherlock put the cup down, then selected a petit four and held it up. Getting the idea, Molly lifted her face and accepted the tidbit into her open mouth. 

Sherlock made a pleased sound and raked his fingers through her hair. Molly arched like a cat under his hand.

Sherlock poured his own cup, then sat back to enjoy it, giving Molly frequent sips of tea and occasionally feeding her some sweet little morsel. Molly basked in the fire’s heat, curving her back and enjoying her shameless display of nudity for an obviously appreciative Sherlock. Boldly, she nuzzled her cheek against his lean thigh, turning a little to peek up at him. Sherlock was smiling lazily, his face just a little flushed. He set down his cup and saucer.

“Now, Molly,” he said. “You didn’t have to tell me how you like your tea. But you do need to tell me how you like your kinky sex. No giggling,” he scolded as she blinked and tittered at his frank turn of phrase. “This is important. We’ll learn more as we continue, but tell me now if there is anything you already know that you don’t want me to do to you.” 

Molly contemplated the pictures that had been flashing in front of her eyes for the past day, each more lurid than the last. But...first things first.

“Well. Condoms. I need to be safe. I know I’m perfectly healthy, but…you have a history of intravenous drug use, Sherlock,” she said, sorry to break the mood, but needing to get it into the open.

“Yes, of course,” he said, touching her cheek. “I told you I’d take good care of you, and that part is integral. Anything else?” 

“My feet are unbearably ticklish.”

“I generally regard tickling as an act of war. What else, Molly?” 

“I don’t want to be beaten hard or...made to bleed.” 

“From experience, I wholeheartedly concur. Anything else come to mind?”

“Not at the moment…”

“How would you feel about...a little spanking?” Sherlock asked, smiling wolfishly. 

Molly dropped his gaze, blushing pinkly. She shifted on her heels. 

“I see.” Sherlock said, rising to his full height so that she had to crane up at him. “Proverbially, someone has been a very naughty girl. Do you remember your safeword? I'll require it later, to verify that we are still in full accord.” 

“Skull,” Molly whispered, her eyes alight. 

In a sudden, violent motion that made Molly jump, Sherlock shoved his chair well away from the fire. 

“Pull your sheepskin out flat. I want you to assume Sim’s position.” 

“Sim’s position?” Molly squeaked, scurrying to lay out the thick pad that was evidently _her_ sheepskin.

“A rather charming Victorian invention. Semi-lateral recumbent, superior leg flexed...arse in the air. Do it.” 

Molly sank into the sheepskin on her belly, then turned slightly onto her left side and drew one knee up. Sherlock studied the positioning for a moment, then produced a pillow from somewhere and slid it under her hips. Molly found that, especially with the pillow, her bum and privates ended up on display in a way that was surely…

“Rather stimulating to those Victorian doctors, I’m sure," Sherlock said, laying aside his suit jacket and turning up the cuffs of his dress shirt. He stepped behind her, then Molly felt him sit by her lifted bottom.

"Now,” Sherlock said, “we have a few matters to discuss. You arrived earlier than I specified, Molly. You need to remember that if you undertake to obey my orders, I require you to obey with absolute precision.” 

His hand flashed in the corner of Molly’s eye and connected with her backside. She squealed. The pain wasn’t intense, but the smack shocked her and left her skin hot. 

“Obedience, Molly! And absolute precision in all things!” he shouted at her, his great voice filling the flat. He delivered another smack, and another, and Molly yelped and jerked reflexively, clutching at the sheepskin. 

“Stay down, girl, or I’ll make you stay,” Sherlock growled. 

Molly couldn’t help it; she twisted as he spanked her arse a fourth time, fighting against herself to maintain her delectably vulnerable position. Sherlock made a terrifying noise deep in his throat and scrambled to kneel over her. He put his forearm on her back, turning his wrist so she felt the muscle instead of the bony ulna, and leaned in, holding her down. 

"Molly, give me your safeword." He raised his hand.

"Skull," Molly panted, and his hand fell. And again. "Oh, god..." She was losing count of the blows, and the wispy ends of the sheepskin's rich pile were tickling her open mouth. 

“And another thing. Don’t think I didn’t notice your disobedience last night in the lab, as I was leaving. I told you to keep your eyes forward. But you turned your head to watch me leave, didn’t you,” he snarled, delivering two hard spanks in quick succession. “Didn’t you!” 

Molly’s heartbeat pounded in her veins. Her arse was afire with sensation; but through it all, Molly remembered...

“The handkerchief,” she cried. “You knew...today...by the way I looked at...ah!...your handkerchief.” 

“Excellent, Molly,” Sherlock purred next to her ear, all anger gone from his voice. He shifted until he was almost draped over her body. The hand that had been delivering her punishment now spanned her stinging arse, gently cupping. A finger flicked inward. Molly moaned. 

"You thought I was offering you the handkerchief I'd dried my hand on last night, after I’d stroked this hungry little slit. You assumed it was a soiled, nasty handkerchief. Didn't you, Molly!" His voice raised again, and in a flash, the caresses turned into another hot smack, this time on the sensitive lower part of her bum. Molly gave a yelp of surprise. 

"Shame on you for believing I'd ever pass you a dirty handkerchief. I was not born in a bin." 

Smack! Smack! 

"But the worst thing you did, the very worst thing," Sherlock said, his fingers dipping deep inside her again, "was to think of your lovely cunt as 'dirty.'" Molly found Sherlock’s wet fingers forcing their way into her mouth, and she tasted her tart, salty fluids for the first time. "A contemptible, medically absurd myth created by a woman-hating society. I'll teach you what is dirty, Molly. Not this. Now, suck every last drop off my fingers. Oh, good girl."

Molly licked hungrily at the long, beautiful fingers that were still hot from spanking her bottom. She sucked them deeper into her mouth and whimpered, imagining him sliding something much bigger over her tongue. 

Sherlock chuckled, and Molly blushed. Of course, he knew. He drew his hand out of her mouth, and lingeringly caressed wet fingers down her throat, breast, belly, hip, and back down to her bottom.

“And what have we learned, my Molly? If you choose to obey me, you must always obey me with...what?” His fingers wandered.

“Absolute precision,” Molly sighed. 

“And is your little cunt nasty, or is it lovely and luscious?”

“Oh! Lovely...and luscious.”

"Correct." He nuzzled her neck, then drew a trail down her back with his mouth. "An exemplary lesson. You deserve a reward. And so do I." 

His head dipped, and Molly felt his tongue slide into her, lashing her with sensation. She mewled in appreciation of his skill and, oh, the length of his tongue.

A hand came to rest atop her tailbone. Molly felt Sherlock shift for a moment, then his thumb dipped down into her wetness and trailed back up to circle her tiny arsehole. His mouth ravished her mercilessly as the tip of his thumb swirled against the rubbery opening. 

For the first time since she had lain down on the sheepskin, Molly felt doubt, blended with an immense, cringing shyness at his touch on her anus. Should she call her safeword? She focused on the feeling of Sherlock's wet finger as it pried insistently at her ring of muscle. It felt rather good, Molly realized, in the same way that it was thrilling when Sherlock shouted at her. Molly relaxed her body, and the tip of his thumb slipped inside. She gasped at the intrusion. 

Sherlock pulled his mouth away for a moment. "You should see yourself, Molly. Sprawled naked on my floor with a red, well-spanked backside. Pussy running like a river, my thumb up your arse." His finger hooked inside her, tugged. "What am I doing to you, Molly? I want to hear you say the words." 

Molly whispered. "You're holding me down, licking my pussy, and teasing my...bottom."

Sherlock gave a muffled laugh at her prim choice of words, and oh, she could feel that deep voice buzzing against her cunt as his long tongue flickered over her clit.

"Ah, ah, Sher---!" Molly came hard, her cries echoing through the warm air. Sherlock held her down until her crisis washed away, leaving her shaking and sighing with happiness. 

He drew his thumb slowly out, then leaned up to snatch two clean napkins from the tray. Smiling dreamily, Molly peeped over her shoulder in time to see him unroll what looked like a tiny condom from his thumb and wrap it in one of the napkins. 

"Finger cot, Molly. Very handy for minor acts of violation," he said, lying down behind her and gathering her in. He'd laid the other napkin against the front of his dress trousers, she noted, before encircling her with his body. 

For some reason, that precaution against her wetness struck Molly as unbearably sad, and she realized to her confusion that she was sobbing. Sherlock held her calmly, stroking her hair, as she curled inward and choked into the sheepskin. 

"Emotional lability. Very normal after BDSM play. You'll be all right, Molly," he said as she howled as if her heart were broken. 

Gradually, Molly grew quiet, and a deep peace washed over her. Sherlock's hands were firm on her body. She drifted for an uncountable time, becalmed in a warm sea. 

*****

When Molly awoke, the early darkness of winter had fallen, and the fire burned low. Sherlock had folded the sheepskin around her at some point. He was now sitting in his chair, looking just as he did on every other occasion Molly could recall, and reading last week's New England Journal of Medicine while nibbling the last of the petits fours. 

"Ah, Molly," he said, catching her eye. "Good evening. Interesting bit here about vascular trauma in the setting of blunt force injury to the limbs." 

"Yes, I saw that," Molly sat up and yawned, scraping her hair away from her face. "Entrapment of the pooled blood by the fascia. Increased pressure compromises the oxygenation of tissues distal to the site of injury, resulting in compartment syndrome. Amputation risk, fasciotomy the only treatment option in many cases, yes, I’ve seen the aftermath." Molly pulled the sheepskin tighter around herself and shivered. 

Sherlock turned the journal ninety degrees and tilted his head. "Very pretty picture of that here, too. Almost as lovely as you, my tousled Molly." He gave her one of his cool smiles, and handed her a big glass of water that had been waiting beside him.

"Sherlock, did you just say I look as pretty as a fasciotomy? No, don't answer that," she said. She took a deep drink. 

"Shall I compare thee to a well-split leg?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "How do you feel?" 

"Bit damp. And sore, actually," she said, carefully touching her behind. "But good." 

"You cried quite a bit after our little session." Sherlock was peering at her. 

"Yes, but I'm all right now,” Molly said, standing up and stretching. “A little shaky, maybe, but I'll be fine. Oh my goodness, what time is it?" Molly fumbled for her watch in her pile of clothes. "I need to feed my cat or he'll make me regret it." 

Sherlock caught up her watch from where it had fallen underneath the side table. In one stride he closed the distance between them, tilted up her chin, and kissed her soundly. 

His mouth was soft, and he tasted of petits fours, cigarettes, and a faint echo of her fluids, and Molly realized in some corner of her mind that this was their first real kiss. Too soon, he pulled away. 

"Go feed your cat, Molly," Sherlock said, handing her the watch. "Lestrade texted me an hour ago about a double homicide, and now that you're awake and evidently well, I really ought to go in. He’s been rather keen since I got out of hospital." 

He stepped back, now twirling her lacy pants around one finger and smirking.

"I'll be keeping these," Sherlock said, easily holding the delicate scrap of fabric out of her reach as she jumped after her pants in mock outrage. "I’ve annexed them as a perquisite. Thank you for wearing a skirt today. Enjoy walking home all chilly and wet and naked underneath, my wicked little pathologist."

Out on the street, Molly beamed at the grey buildings, bare trees, and sour-faced people of London. Sherlock had promised to get in touch as soon as he was free. Sherlock apparently had no concept of the superb ability of woolen leggings to protect her bare bottom against the cold. And in the last 24 hours, Sherlock had orchestrated the the two best orgasms of her life. She was expecting a new round of research data at work tomorrow, and she had a delicious new secret to tell her best friend and keep from her mother. 

Life was wonderful. London was beautiful. And Molly didn't let herself think about the fact that during their time together, Sherlock himself had yet to undo a single shirt button.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you thank you for your comments and kudos. They're appreciated more than you can know!
> 
> Also: it's not necessary to enjoy this chapter, but if you'd like to hear the song Sherlock sings to Molly, here it is. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1laFl_uOzww To me, this song sounds like what being hopelessly in love feels like. 
> 
> Please enjoy! Lots more where this came from, for as long as the two of them have...

Two days later, Molly was wakened an hour early by the chime of her phone---the high, glassy tone she’d set for Sherlock’s texts. Without opening her eyes, she reached over and brought the phone under the covers. She swiped it open.

_Just solved the case. A triple homicide, as it turns out. Can’t meet today, haven’t eaten or slept since I saw you last. Hoping to be free tomorrow._

_SH_

Molly groaned drowsily. Useless to lecture him on proper health habits.

_Fine, after I’m done with work. Mine or yours?_

_Not sure yet. I’m in a cab for awhile, entertain me. Let’s play a little game. It’s called “Would you rather.”_

Molly sat up in bed, now fully awake. Beside her, Toby meowed faintly as Molly tapped out her reply.

_What are the rules?_

_Simple. I ask you whether you prefer A or B, and you tell me the truth about which you like more._

She smiled. _What if I like them the same?_

_I suppose you can say both, or neither. If you must._

She could practically see him sighing impatiently in the back of the cab, and laughed.

_Okay. Ready._

_First a baseline. A personality test of sorts. Prince and servant girl, or policeman and streetwalker?_

_Prince._

_Pirate and maiden or burglar and housewife?_

_Pirate._

_Military interrogation or vampire abduction?_

_Vampire._

_Very interesting, Molly. Very interesting indeed._

Molly closed her eyes and felt the heat rise in her body as all sorts of interesting scenarios unfolded in her mind. She heard Sherlock’s chime again.

_Gag or blindfold?_

_Blindfold. Not gag please._

_Striptease or clothes cut off?_

_Both._

_Ice or hot wax?_

_Wax please? Or neither?_

_Clamps on your nipples or on your clitoris?_

_Oh god Sherlock_

_I’M WAITING, MOLLY._

Her hand moved down her belly and dipped between her legs. Clutching her phone in her other hand, she tried to tap out a reply using only her thumb, but mistyped and sent the text too soon.

_I ddsdfd_

“Damn it.” Molly could see the indicator that meant Sherlock was typing his reply.

_Molly. Answer me truthfully. Are you touching yourself right now?_

How could he make her blush so hard so early in the morning?

_yes_

_You are such a wanton little beast. If I were in any shape for it I’d tell the driver to change routes right now._

Molly had no reply. She laid back and pulled her legs open in her favorite self-pleasuring pose, inadvertently pushing poor Toby off the bed entirely.

_Clit or nipples, Molly. You failed to answer before so you don’t get to say neither this time._

Molly writhed under the covers.

_nipples_

_Me spanking your pussy or shaving it bare?_

_what spanking? oh god. no um shaving?_

_That was a rather ambiguous answer, Molly. More data required. I’ll need to experiment. Stripped and forced to orgasm in front of Lestrade, or a stranger?_

That, she was very sure about. _Stranger. Never someone we know._ Oh, the idea of Sherlock showing her off as his prized possession in front of someone, or even a group of someones...

_Poor Lestrade, you know he’d love it. Ah well. Little French maid or pet on a leash?_

_Maid. Want to give good service. Oh Sherlock._ The quick switches between fantasies were quickening her thoughts, making her type almost without thinking. Herself in a white apron, oh, and only a white apron, bending over to dust Sherlock’s collection of books...She rubbed herself more urgently.

_Molly, you’re being very distracting. My cab is turning onto Baker Street. Quickly, now. Paddle or riding crop?_

_Riding crop._ The whiz-crack of Sherlock’s frenzied blows in her memory…quailing a little, she quickly sent another text. _But not hard._

_Thank you, Molly. A game well played. Now, I want to to touch yourself until you come. Oh and buy yourself chocolate today and eat every bit. I’ll be in touch soon._

Closing her eyes, Molly saw Sherlock as he must be at this moment, pausing on the steps in front of 221B, one hand on the door handle and the other dashing off his final text to her. She held his face in her mind: pale with hunger, shadows of exhaustion under his eyes, but the trace of a smile on his lips.

Molly tossed her phone onto the bed and enthusiastically obeyed him.

*****

That evening, Molly met her best friend Beth at their favorite pub, which happened to have private booths that were well suited for intimate conversation. Over a lager or two and baskets of excellent chips, Molly poured out the events of the last few days to Beth, whose eyes and mouth got wider and wider as she howled with scandalized laughter.

“...He went for your bum? Bad thing!” Beth snorted into her ale. “Though Jonathan’s rather keen on my arse, as it happens. Wait, did he even ask first?”

“No, he did ask...sort of nonverbally? It was all part of the game. As in...he touched me there, and I didn’t say anything or do anything to put him off. He gave me plenty of warning before he went inside, and I decided I wanted to try it, so I...had him go ahead.”

“And then he held you down and spanked you?” Beth asked, stealing one of Molly’s chips.

“No, that was before,” Molly said, stealing one of her friend’s chips in return, as they did at least ten times each whenever they came here.

Molly told Beth about the “misbehavior” that had precipitated the spanking, and Beth chortled.

“‘Absolute precision!’ He really is a strange one, isn’t he?”

“Oh, yes,” Molly giggled, wiping a fleck of beer foam from her mouth. “But god, he’s fit, Beth. You should see him, he’s just gorgeous. And bloody brilliant. Makes me come practically just by talking.”

“This is the Sherlock Holmes in the papers, the genius one who died and came back, yes? I’ve seen pictures. Weird-looking bloke, I thought. But then you don’t really go for nice, normal boys, do you.”

“Well, look what happened with Tom,” Molly replied ruefully. “Nice and normal don’t work for me, apparently.”

“Bores you to tears, literally. Poor sod.”

“Poor me. I guess I’m doomed to have mad weirdos spank me forever.”

“Well, Molly,” Beth said, growing serious. “I’m glad you’re having a good time with these kinky games, but he made it clear that he won’t be your boyfriend. In my book that makes him a prat, and I would really hate to see you break your heart. You know how you mooned over him for years.”

“Yeah, I was a bit disappointed when he said that,” Molly said, looking into her glass. “But I’ve actually been so busy...I don’t think of him night and day. There’s a lot happening at work, and with my research, just for starters. And you know, Beth, it’s been nice for me to actually spend time with Sherlock like this. He’s different to what I used to think about. And...if this makes any sense...it’s good to leave those sad old thoughts behind and just interact with him normally, you know?”

“Ha! Normally.”

“Okay, positively.” Molly stole another chip. “While we’re playing he keeps telling me I’m smart and pretty, and it sort of warms me up inside, in a way that lasts. Even when he’s shouting at me he makes me feel special. And he’s making it all about me. So far.”

“I noticed that, too,” Beth said. “You said he doesn’t undress?”

“Not at all. The first time, he didn’t even take off his coat.”

“And how do we feel about that?” Beth asked, her eyes knowing.

Molly’s mouth turned down. “Honestly, it’s starting to bother me, Beth. He said he wanted me, the day I went to his flat. And of course I want him. Oh, and to see him naked. God, Beth, I’m gasping for that.”

They laughed for a moment, then Molly sighed. “But even when he was texting me this morning...I realized later that he never actually mentioned anything specific about us having actual sex, as if he has no plans in that way. I just don’t understand it.”

“Maybe he has a skin disease,” Beth said. “Or could be he’s just body-shy...So many people are. Or he has an embarrassing tattoo on his bum? Or maybe he’s just…” Beth held up her pinkie finger and grinned.

“No, it felt quite big through his trousers the other night. Practically left a bruise,” Molly said seriously.

“Oh, Molls,” Beth sighed, her shoulders sagging. “Well, you had really better talk to him about this at some point, and soon. This arsehole had really better not upset you if he knows what’s good for him.”

“Well, maybe next time. The arsehole and I are supposed to get together in a day or so. Maybe he’ll let me take off a sock and we can work our way up from there,” Molly said wryly.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Molly Hooper. Have fun, but be careful, okay?”

“Love you too, Beth. Okay. I promise.”

 

****

The next evening, Molly relaxed on her sofa in her favorite winter dressing gown after taking her bath. She had just poured herself a glass of wine and settled in to ponder a new study from the States about how well blow flies hatched out of corpses after deep burial in bare ground, when her phone chimed.

_Molly, need a place to hide. I’m in the neighborhood. Can I drop by?_  
 _SH_

Molly raised an eyebrow. _No fear, if you’re just going to lead criminals to my flat._

_Absolutely not. Unfortunately they’re very stupid criminals. Just rather a lot of them._

_Then call me on the intercom when you arrive and I’ll buzz you in._

Just then, there was a knock at Molly’s door. She scampered over in bare feet and opened it, and there he was, large as life. His curls were mussed and tumbling over one eye, rather dashingly, she thought.

“The lobby door…?” she asked weakly. He just raised an eyebrow at her, incredulous, and she gave up and waved him inside.

Toby, who had been curled up in his cat bed next to the radiator, raised his head. Sherlock stroked his ears by way of greeting, and Toby deigned to acknowledge his former acquaintance with a faint meow before going back to sleep.

His eyes darted around her flat and came to rest on the pathology journal. “Little light reading? The part about the blow flies was rather fascinating.”

“I was just re-reading that.” Molly smiled at him. “Please have a seat. Glass of wine?”

“Water. Been running.” Sherlock threw himself down across her sofa, taking up the whole thing. “What did you think about the methodology?”

“Not the greatest. For starters, they only used the one species of blow fly,” Molly replied, handing him his glass. “Budge up, you great oaf.”

He swung his legs down with an exaggerated sigh, and Molly sat with her glass of wine. Sherlock reached down and pulled her legs over his lap. “That’s better. You were saying?”

Molly grinned. “Well, it’s awfully limited with just the one species. And it’s not clear whether they adequately controlled for the time of year. And...”

They settled in to discuss the seasonal changes of the various body farms that had been the study locations, the length of time the cadavers had been buried in the dirt, and the quality of the resulting data. Molly was pleased, not only because he’d also read the study but because he was perfectly comfortable with the subject matter. Her other friends, even the medical doctors like Beth, tended to turn green if Molly talked much about her interest in forensic pathology. Sherlock, by contrast, was steadily slipping his long hands up her legs as he nattered on about the effects of oxygenation and ambient temperature on decomposition.

“...So considering the rate at which the tissue is destroyed, and the relative depth of the graves, I’d think the investigators would…” Sherlock’s fingers reached her hip, and he stopped.

“The investigators would what, Sherlock?”

“You’re not wearing pants. Lost my train of thought. Were the ones I took your only pair?”

Molly laughed into her wine glass. “I just got out of the bath, you nutter.”

“I know that. Show me your cunt.”

Molly gasped. It was as if he’d thrown a switch in her body, flooding her with heat.

Smiling at him flirtatiously, she set down her glass, then crossed her legs on his lap. Then she leaned back against the arm of her sofa and drew her crossed knees up to her chest. Slowly, she pulled aside her dressing gown until she felt cool air on her pussy.

“God, Molly. You’re already ripe for it,” Sherlock said, his eyes on her pink folds. She was gratified to see him wince and adjust his trousers. She was so ready for him, and hoped that maybe this time he’d pull out his cock and…Oh, sod it. She’d just be direct.

“Sherlock, I want you now. Right now,” Molly purred, wriggling enticingly. Sherlock swallowed.

“God,” he said again. “Hold that position.”

Sherlock sprang up and away from her, crossing the sitting room and entering the kitchen in a few energetic bounds. “Uh…” He dashed and turned a few times, seeming to cast about. To Molly’s confusion, he opened and shut a few kitchen drawers. Toby raised his head at the clatter, then subsided again, unconcerned.

“Ah, here we are,” she heard Sherlock say. He stuffed something into his trouser pocket. “Molly, tell me where you keep your vibrators.”

“Uh, my bedroom. Purple box under the bed, on the left,” she told him, and Sherlock disappeared for a moment, then returned, bearing the box as well as a clean hand towel she’d left folded on the clothes drier. Molly watched him lay out the towel on her coffee table. He set down the purple box and flung the lid aside.

“Well, well. It’s Christmas three weeks early. Molly, you little wanton,” he said, pulling out her toys one by one and laying them out neatly on the towel. “Oh, this one’s rather big, isn’t it….This one looks suspiciously like a butt plug, and very recently purchased, you minx.”

Molly blushed; she’d bought the new toy the day after Sherlock had spanked her at Baker Street. That night, she’d remembered the scene fondly while adding a few fantasy twists of her own.

“This one’s shape seems to involve some kind of deformed rodent or possibly a teddy bear, but there’s no accounting for taste. Ah, here we are,” Sherlock said, holding up a sleek pink waterproof vibe with a lovely low-frequency motor. “This one’s clearly your favorite. Clean, yes?”

“Yes, I never put them away until they’re clean,” Molly said, grinning and rocking from side to side on the sofa. She adored being exposed to him like this.

“First things first. I want you naked, gets you in the right frame of mind. Take off that useless dressing gown, then get right back into that impossibly delectable position.” Sherlock directed, standing over her. “Quickly, Molly!”

She tore off her dressing gown and threw it aside, then re-crossed her legs and curled up again, offering her swollen center.

“Hands behind your head. No, hold onto the arm of the sofa. Good girl.”

Sherlock put his hand in in his pocket, then pulled out a few of the twist ties she used to close her rubbish bags. He showed them to her.

“Wire wrapped in a bit of paper. Not much to look at. But I think you’ll be surprised, Molly,” he said, kneeling beside her. He leaned in and crushed his lips hungrily against hers, opening her mouth with his tongue. She felt him bite, and moaned helplessly into his mouth.

He broke the kiss. His eyes bored into hers, two rings of icy blue surrounding black pools of pupils blown wide.

“Lower your knees for just a moment, Molly. I want to see those nipples. Ah…”

Sherlock’s head dipped, and he pulled the tip of one breast into his mouth. With lips and tongue and teeth, Sherlock worked her until it stood up proudly. Molly ached to cradle his curly head to her breast, but obediently held onto the arm of the sofa as he licked and bit at her other nipple.

He drew his mouth off her nipple with a pop, then gently flicked a fingernail against each wet peak, looking at her face as if to gauge her reaction. He pulled out a twist tie.

“Remember your safeword, Molly,” he said as he slowly looped the twist tie around one nipple, twisting the ends together until they were snug. “Although I suppose ‘Ow Sherlock ow’ could also get the point across,” he continued, attaching a twist tie to the other nipple. Molly moaned as the ties bit softly into her flesh.

“Now then,” he said. “Pull your knees up to your chin again.”

He stood and considered her for a moment, then Molly saw Sherlock laugh to himself and reach back to drag the soft belt out of her discarded dressing gown. Wrapping the belt around her curled-up body, around her back and bent legs, he tied the ends in a bow.

“My little Christmas gift,” Sherlock grinned. “All wrapped up for me.”

Molly laughed, then gasped as the motion of her chest shifted the twist ties just a bit. Her nipples felt swollen, hot, and very prominent in her awareness. Deftly, Sherlock reached in with both hands and tightened the twist ties slightly, bringing in a slight ache.

“Now then. How do you feel, Molly?”

“I’m cold,” Molly realized. Her hair was still damp from her bath, and her toes were getting very chilly indeed. “I want to get into bed.” Some very nice things could become more likely in a bed.

“Oh, you do, my little gift. No fireplace in here, I see. I suppose we could make the bed work. Hmm, should I make you crawl to the bedroom?...No, that doesn’t seem right. Gifts are carried.”

Sherlock stuffed her favorite pink vibrator into his pocket, then bent and picked her up off the couch with little effort, cuddling Molly to him. The soft belt fell loosely to the ground, and he kicked it away before bearing her into her bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him.

“Get under the covers, Molly,” Sherlock told her as he set her down on her bed, flicked on her soft bedside lamp, and turned down the duvet. “Just a moment.”

He laid aside his coat and took off his suit jacket, shoes and belt, but to her immense disappointment, he stopped there. Still in his aubergine dress shirt and charcoal trousers, he jumped up on her bed and sat back against the headboard.

“Sherlock, why---”

“Not now, Molly,” Sherlock said. “Come here. Lie back against me. And I do hope I don’t have to tell you to pull those knees up again. You sealed your fate on the sofa when you assumed that position.”

Dizzily, Molly obeyed him, sitting between his legs and lying back against his warm chest. Sherlock tugged up the duvet to cover them both, then swept his left arm under her knees and pressed Molly back against him. She savored the stretch in the backs of her legs.

“Hands on the headboard. Or in my hair if you like, you little fetishist,” he told her. Grinning, she put one hand on the headboard and slid the other into his curls. Oh, she’d been wanting to do that forever. Sherlock leaned into her hand and made a dark sound into her ear.

“Comfortable now, Molly?”

“Almost,” she breathed. “Um, your...erection.” It was a painful lump against the bony part of her back.

Sherlock said nothing, but shifted her a bit so that his hardness wasn’t pressing directly on her backbone. Ah, that was better.

“It’s been a few minutes. Let’s get these ties off you,” Sherlock said, and slipped his right hand between her legs and chest. He deftly removed the twist ties from her nipples, tossing them away. Molly sighed; her nipples were sore and tingly as he toyed with them, bringing the blood flow back to normal.

“Those should be nice and sensitive now, even without my help,” Sherlock said. He was right; Molly was acutely aware of them.

She felt his right hand creep over her hip. He stroked his fingers into her pussy, and Molly hummed with wanting. She flexed her fingers in his hair. His fingers strummed her as if she were a familiar musical instrument.

Luxuriating in the feeling of being held by his greater power, she strained against his strength, but to her delight, she was getting nowhere. Molly felt that lately, Sherlock had been making rather a point of effectively holding her captive with only one arm.

“You’re exquisite like this, Molly,” Sherlock said, his fingers sliding against her wet folds. “All curled up, pussy pulled up tight. Swollen and split like a juicy peach,” he purred into her ear as Molly crooned. “I could almost forgive that you’re getting my collar all damp with your wet hair.”

With the flats of his fingers, he gave her cunt a rather firm tap. Molly started and gasped. He gave her another, a bit harder this time.

“Bad Molly. My shirt will be wrinkled,” he scolded her, his voice low and dangerous. He toyed with her clitoris. “I have a standard to uphold. I will not abide looking disheveled. Say you’re sorry, little Molly.” He gave her pussy another tap, even harder than the last.

“Oh, Sherlock!”

“Say you’re sorry and I’ll stop.”

“Mmm,” Molly said, getting the idea.

Another, this time hard enough to be a slap, followed by a delicious caress. He was taking care to avoid hitting her clitoris directly, but each little blow sent a jolt of sensation up her spine. Molly could not believe what he was doing to her. But she wanted to take more.

Sherlock gave her pussy the hardest slap yet. Oh, yes, that was almost the limit. Molly couldn’t believe that her pussy could feel so hot and swollen.

“Say. You’re. Sorry,” Sherlock snarled, punctuating every word with a sharp smack on her cunt.

“Sorry,” Molly gasped, as the exquisite balance between pleasure and pain finally tipped. “I’m so sorry about your shirt, Sherlock.” Her pussy tingled and throbbed delightfully.

“Apology accepted.” Molly heard the buzz of the vibrator, and a moment later, felt him sliding it inside her, stretching her passage gloriously.

He set up a soft cadence, rhythmically pulling her body back against his with every thrust of the vibrator. Molly felt a buzz through her whole torso, and marveled that the sensation was surrounding her so strongly. Then the buzz ceased for a moment as Sherlock took a breath, and she realized that he was humming, the vibrations in his chest matching the tone of her toy.

In ecstasy, Molly laid her head back against his shoulder as the vibrator swirled against her and Sherlock’s intoxicating voice thrummed in her very bones. After a time, she became aware that Sherlock had stopped steadily humming the same note; he was singing softly as he pleasured her, and if she stilled her panting she could make out words.

“Dieu….qu'il l'a fait bon regarder…la gracieuse, bonne et belle…”

Beautiful, it was heartbreakingly beautiful. Molly’s eyes slid closed and let her body go limp in his arms, her face against the warm neck that smelled sublimely of Sherlock, her Sherlock. She gave herself up to him, warm in the circle of his body.

Her orgasm rose in her like a wave. Molly bore it silently; Sherlock was still singing. When her climax was over, he slipped the vibrator away, shut it off, and cradled her a moment more, the tips of his fingers motionless on her glowing center, until he’d come to the end of his song.

Gently, he released her legs, and Molly stretched slowly and turned in his arms. She shifted over his leg so that she was beside him, and cuddled into the nook under his arm.

“All right, Molly?” His face was so tender in the dim light. Molly couldn’t look.

“Sherlock, what were you singing?”

“Debussy. From the Trois Chansons. Mostly the bass part, some of the alto. It’s been running through my brain for the past week.”

“It was beautiful. French…almost?”

“Fifteenth-century French.”

“I didn’t know you could sing as well as play violin.”

“At uni I preferred the chamber choir to the orchestra, actually. Mostly because I couldn’t stand being the last chair in the violin section.”

“You were the last chair?” Molly smiled, shaking her head at the idea that Sherlock had been deemed the worst at anything.

“Mmm. I like to believe that it came down to my not caring enough about the orchestra to put in the effort. I had other things on my mind at that time. But you didn’t answer my question, Molly. Are you all right?”

She screwed up her courage. “Sherlock. Do you want me?” She hesitantly laid her hand on his thigh, not daring to touch the front of his trousers.

Sherlock closed his eyes. His reply was so low that Molly had to strain to hear. “Yes.”

“I want you, Sherlock. I want you inside me. And I want to touch you.” Molly tried to speak calmly, and not to beg him. That would be too humiliating.

Sherlock didn’t open his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it tonight, Molly. I know you have questions. We’ll discuss that soon. Not tonight.”

Molly pressed her lips together sadly. She was so confused, and her heart was aching. Suddenly she wanted to shout at him to get out, out of her bed, if he was going to keep his clothes on like a fumbling adolescent. Out of her flat. He’d have to find another place to hide from his very stupid criminals. Quashing the urge to shove him away, she sat up.

Sherlock opened his eyes to watch her as she pulled away from him. “You’re unhappy.”

“Yes, Sherlock, I’m unhappy. Well spotted,” Molly said. “We need to talk about this.”

"I agree. Next time I see you, we’ll talk. Fair enough?”

Molly got out of bed and snatched her second-favourite dressing gown out of her closet, using the moment to calm herself a bit. Knotting the belt around her waist, Molly turned and faced the man who was still sitting against her headboard, absurd in his dress shirt.

“Okay, Sherlock. When I see you next. But right now, you had really better go.” She folded her arms.

He blinked. “I need to be giving you aftercare. Making sure you’re all right. Come back to bed. Please, Molly.” He held out his arm.

Molly jerked her chin to the side. “I’m not too happy with you just at the moment. What I need right now is to be by myself. So please, Sherlock. Do as I ask.”

Sherlock got out of her bed and found his shoes. As he was putting on his belt, he asked her, “Are you sore from the spanking? If you’re sore, and you don’t have an ice pack, you may find that a bag of frozen peas, wrapped in a clean napkin or thin dishcloth---”

“Yes, Sherlock. Thank you.” Molly held out his coat. “I’ll see you out.”

“Drink a full glass of water, please, Molly,” Sherlock said as he crossed the sitting room. “And if your legs feel strained, two paracetamol…”

“Good night, Sherlock.” Molly opened the door and stood beside it.

Sherlock shifted from foot to foot. Then, not meeting her eyes, he strode quickly out the door and down her hall.

Molly told herself she didn’t care if the criminals caught up with him. Across the room, Toby watched her as she slowly shut the door and stood there silently, still holding the knob, thinking. After she hadn’t moved in a while, Toby shut his eyes and went back to sleep, utterly uninterested.


	4. Chapter 4

Two days later, while Molly was at work, she received an urgent text message from a very concerned John Watson. 

_Mrs Hudson called me. She said Sherlock has been playing his violin continuously for the last forty-eight hours. Been keeping her up. He’s eaten nothing, won’t say a word to me. Molly, something’s clearly wrong and I think you know what. You had better come over._

Molly frowned. _What makes you think I know what Sherlock’s problem is?_

_I’ve seen him do something like this before, though not to this degree. And I see a pair of pants in the pocket of his dressing gown. I’m sorry, Molly, but I know you own a bra in the same color and lace pattern. I’ve seen the strap peeking at the neckline of your blouse._

Molly didn’t know how to respond to that; clearly there was no use denying anything. John followed up with another text.

_Okay, so that was my horrifying Sherlock deduction moment. Now I’m done, I’m profoundly ashamed, and let’s never speak of it again. But Molls, Sherlock’s in a bad way. Can you come and talk to him? Please? He’s starting to scare me._

Molly sighed. _Yes, I’ll come. About 2 hours. He’ll have to survive until then, John, I have specimens that need to be assessed and put back in incubators._

_Sherlock of all people would understand. Ta, Molly. I really appreciate it. And sorry again._

Molly snapped off a rubber glove and put her hand to her eyes. The prospect of confronting Sherlock did not appeal just now, at the end of her week; she had needed to work longer hours than usual because of the time spent on the new research data, and she hadn’t been sleeping at all well since she and Sherlock had had their little domestic. 

Well, then, Molly, it’ll do both of you good to have it out, she told herself, for better or for worse. She only hoped John would have tactfully taken his leave by the time she arrived. She didn’t want to know what kind of look he’d have on his all-too-expressive face.

****

It had grown dark by the time Molly hauled her tired body up the stairs at Baker Street. She had heard Sherlock’s mournful violin from the street, but it ceased in the middle of a phrase as she neared the top of the stairs. 

She opened the door, and there he was, sitting in his familiar chair in his old blue dressing gown, unshaven and none too clean, his eyes deeply shadowed. He’d set the violin down; for a long moment they just looked at each other across the dim, cold room as the snow blew past the windows. Then, Molly made a decision.

She set down her bag where she stood, slipped off her coat and shoes. Sherlock watched her wonderingly as she stole across the room on silent socks and knelt at his feet. She laid her aching head on his pajama-clad leg and peered up at his face.

“Molly,” he whispered as he bent to her, hand lightly skimming her hair almost in disbelief. His eyes were wet as he touched her shoulders, her face. 

Molly leaned up and kissed him gently, bumping her chin against his stubble, slipping her arms around his slender body. 

He seemed so slight like this, Molly thought, out of his tailored suits, his feet bare on the cold floor by her knees. He was almost a foot taller than her, and Molly knew he was brutally strong, but just now, there was nothing of her stern master in him. Just thin, trembling Sherlock, plainly wrung out with hunger and exhaustion.

“Molly,” he said again, “Forgive me. I let you down. I promised, I let you down. And I can’t, I have nothing. No good for you.” His face crumpled. She had never seen Sherlock like this; John had been right to call her.

“Hush, Sherlock. Just sit for a moment, all right?” Molly got up and went to her bag. “First off, I want you to eat something,” she said, pulling out the takeaway boxes she’d brought in with her and setting a chicken and rice dish on the arm of his chair. “Eat, Sherlock,” she said, handing him a plastic fork. “I’ll have some too.” She knelt again and watched as he began to eat, then dug in herself. When they finished it, she’d open the second takeaway box, then the third.

Later, she could admonish him for letting himself get to this deplorable state, after fasting during the case, then running from criminals and doing god knew what else all the next day, then enduring two more days of no sleep or food, according to Mrs Hudson. Later, she would tell him that he was being childish and that he needed to take responsibility for keeping himself alive. Right now, tonight, she would give him only kindness, whether or not he deserved it.

She got up for a moment, then placed a tall glass of water next to him before turning to build up the fire. When she’d got the kindling going well, she turned back to find that the water had disappeared and that Sherlock was well into the second box of food. More water, then, and John’s old blanket around his bony shoulders. 

Sherlock acquiesced to everything in uncharacteristic silence, his eyes hardly leaving her face as she knelt to eat with him, then efficiently cleared away the empty boxes. 

“Let’s get you to bed now, Sherlock,” she said, tugging on his hands. He let himself be guided; first she pushed him into the bathroom, then when he emerged, to the bedroom. “To sleep, Sherlock,” she told him as he turned to her and started to unbutton her jumper.

“Yes, sleep. Stay, Molly. Please.” 

Slowly, he helped her to undress, and when she stood naked before him, he took her hand and led her to his bed. Sliding between the sheets, he settled her just in front of his curled body and buried his nose in her hair. 

“Are you sore, Molly? Were you sore, from before?” he murmured against her neck, his arm warm and limp around her. 

“A little at first, but I’m all right now. I used an ice pack, like you told me, then I was perfectly all right, Sherlock.”

“Mmmm. Good.” Sherlock’s breathing grew deep and even. Molly sighed, then reached out to turn off the light.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I accidentally the feels. Not even sorry. More yumminess coming right up, smutlings...wherein Sherlock starts doling out the real "don't try this at home" stuff! Next chapter is 98.95% done, so stay tuned...

Somewhere in the hours after midnight, Molly dreamt of Sherlock falling past the window at St Bart’s. Just as she’d done that day, she rushed to shove the imposter’s body out of the window. But this time, when she looked down, to her utter horror she saw that there had been a mistake, or a betrayal, and there had been no inflatable ready. Nothing had softened Sherlock’s fall, and her detective was lying broken on the pavement, his soaring, scintillating mind now just a red smear on the stones, her screams of grief and despair drowned under a choking torrent of rain.

When she started awake, she was alone in Sherlock’s bed, and he was still alive; she could hear the shower running somewhere close at hand. Molly turned over, feeling that something wasn’t right, somehow, but she couldn’t quite remember what. Her eyes drifted closed again. 

She dozed for only a short time before her body pushed her into full wakefulness. She looked at the clock and groaned; they had fallen asleep in the early evening, so it was no wonder she was waking up now, in the darkest part of the night. There was no sign of Sherlock; she got out of bed and reached for her clothes. 

When she padded out to the dark sitting room, Sherlock was back in his chair, clean-shaven, fully dressed, leaning forward with elbows on his knees. He was staring into the roaring fire, but looked up when she drew near. 

She dearly wanted to sit at his feet again, but held to her resolve and instead sat in John Watson’s chair. They looked at each other, unsmiling, as a log broke in the fire, sending sparks out onto the hearth. 

“So,” Sherlock said, looking away first. “I owe you an apology. And an explanation. Molly, we can’t keep doing this.”

“I know,” she said, her heart cracking open with the words. “But I still want to hear your reasons.”

“I’m not entirely prepared for you to know these things about me, Molly, and I should have anticipated that. It was a mistake to touch you at all.”

“What’s going on, Sherlock? You’ve touched all of me. You told me to take off my clothes for you, but you didn’t do that for me. You gave me pleasure, but didn’t take anything in return.”

“I do take it. Just not when you’re in the room.”

“What?” 

“That first night I didn’t even make it out of St Bart’s. Had to use a stairwell, unheated, to avoid security cameras. Bloody fucking cold.” 

“You mean to say you...tossed off in a stairwell at Bart’s? Jesus, Sherlock.”

“And the second day, while you were asleep in the sheepskin, I took care of it in the bedroom.”

“Sherlock, why do that? I wanted you inside me. You had to know I would do.”

“Molly. Listen to me. Until that contemptible business with Irene Adler, I didn’t let myself inside a woman for well over a decade.” 

“What? Why ever not?”

“Do you really want to know why, Molly? Even though knowing will drive you away from me?”

Some weak, mewling part of Molly cried, no, it doesn’t matter, I don’t want to know. But she said, “Yes, Sherlock. You owe me that much.”

Sherlock moved toward his desk, his face rather paler than usual. “Come here, Molly. If you really want to see, I’ll show you.”

Molly moved to sit beside him as he pulled his laptop toward him. He typed the phrase “joshua arek petrossian” into a search engine, then turned the screen so that Molly could see the page of images that popped up.

The pictures were all of the same dark-haired, happy-looking teenage boy. Molly saw the scrawny young man standing in front of a waterfall with friends, making faces for his phone in a bathroom mirror, holding a plastic cup at a party in someone’s messy sitting room. Molly looked closer and saw, unmistakably, that the boy had Sherlock’s slanted eyes, his long jaw, his distinctive mouth.

“My son,” Sherlock said flatly. “Fourteen years old. He seems quite normal, at least from what I can tell.”

Molly had nothing to say. She looked into the boy’s thin face so she wouldn’t have to look at Sherlock. 

Springing up from the desk, Sherlock crossed the room and leaned against the wall, facing into the darkened kitchen. When he spoke, he used the same flat voice. 

“While I was at uni, I attracted a number of people who appreciated my talent for domination. I was an arrogant bastard, even more so then, and I thoroughly enjoyed my little harem to the point that I was nearly sent down for neglecting my studies. In my last year, one of my female pets discovered she was pregnant some months after she’d called off our arrangement. She told me it was mine, and I knew it was true. I’d been very...attentive.”

At that, Molly found her voice. “Sherlock, didn’t you use birth control?”

“We did. It failed. Michaela was participating in a late-stage clinical trial of the hormonal contraceptive patch. Apparently, there was a problem with a bad batch of adhesive. Completely ridiculous. Michaela’s patch fell off, and she didn’t notice for two days. She thought nothing of it until she went in for the routine trial assessment, including a pregnancy test. She was furious with me, but for her own reasons she decided to keep the baby.”

“I never imagined you were a father, Sherlock.”

“I’m not. Michaela doesn’t want me to have any contact with him. In fact she had me thrown out of the maternity ward when I turned up after Joshua was born, then got a restraining order.” 

Molly didn’t dare ask why. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Probably best for him. Still, I tried sending her money for his maintenance, but Michaela won’t have it. So I’ve been building up a nice little sum that I plan to get to him anonymously after his eighteenth birthday...somehow. Can’t look like it might be coming from me, or Michaela will make me regret it. Haven’t worked that part out yet.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Molly didn’t want to hear any more. It made her too sad. 

“Don’t feel sorry for me. Contraception was my responsibility too, and I cocked it up royally. I should have noticed that the damned patch was missing.” Impatiently, he tore off his suit jacket and flung it behind him as if he hated it. The jacket hit the back of John’s armchair and slid off. 

“Just a moment, Sherlock,” Molly said, as something he’d said earlier rang alarm bells. “You were having sex with multiple women...people...and you weren’t using condoms?”

“With all the others, I did,” Sherlock said, half-turning. “Michaela and I were fluid-bonded, meaning that we both agreed to have unprotected sex with no one else.”

“She was special to you, then.”

For a long moment, Sherlock didn’t answer. Then he screwed up his mouth. “Not really,” he said, rather bitterly. “The fluid bond was all my idea. It was part of her submission to me. God, it’s so hard to say this, but I didn’t want to use condoms with her....because I found her pussy particularly enjoyable.” He shut his eyes.

Molly found herself caught between perverse arousal and wonder at the breathtaking arrogance and dissipation of the twenty-two-year-old Sherlock. 

“So. After Michaela and the baby, I ended everything. I didn’t touch another person for many years. And when I did, I found myself avoiding women. I realised that Michaela had been more an addiction than a person to me, and I ended up ruining her life, at least for a time. Joshua won’t ever know his father, nor should he.” 

“And you have to watch him grow up via Google.” Molly closed her eyes in pain. 

“I don’t ‘watch him grow up,’ that’s pathetic. Well! Now that you know this charming fact about me, Molly,” Sherlock said with a false heartiness that set her teeth on edge, “I won’t blame you in the least when you leave and don’t come back. May I still borrow body parts from you at the morgue?”

Molly let out a strangled gasp. “Sherlock, you are absolutely unbelievable,” she said sharply. He flinched, but she continued. “What about Irene Adler? You said you slept with her.”

“In my defense, I’d almost died a few times that night. Plus, the sordid old story: I’d had a few drinks. I had no way to contact her after, so I was terrified for months until I managed to track down her new business website and saw recent pictures. John was so relieved when I stopped snapping all our drinking glasses into bits in my hands, though of course I never told him why.”

“That’s why you won’t sleep with me,” Molly said, stepping in front of him and looking into his face. “You’re afraid it will happen again. Look at me, Sherlock,” she said as he turned his chin away. “Answer me.”

“Yes, Molly,” he said, stubbornly looking at the floor and curling his lip. “I’m afraid. It’s contemptibly irrational, of course.”

“You’re right about that. First off, there’s a thing called contraception. I, for example, am on the pill.”

“Unacceptably high failure rate. But Molly, it’s more than that.”

“Wait, Sherlock. Why not get a vasectomy if you’re so worried?”

“Oh, I don’t know. If by some miracle Mycroft ever has children, I’d like to retain the ability to show him up by having far more energetic and attractive ones. Just to annoy him.” 

“You mean you might want to have children someday.”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

“Oh, fuck you, Sherlock!” Molly shouted. “This isn’t a joke!”

“I’m acutely aware of that, Doctor Hooper!” he shouted back. “I used a woman callously, and it threw her whole life off track. And I’ve hurt others, left more people broken behind me than you can possibly imagine. I’m empty, I’m heartless, Molly. These ‘beautiful gifts’ you so pathetically fetishize are a curse on everyone who gets too close to me. In place of love for others, I feel contempt. I’ve seen too much of people, too clearly, all my bloody fucking life, to ever feel otherwise!”

Molly stood stock-still while Sherlock roared full in her face. 

He turned away, his shoulders sagging, his voice grown quiet. “Molly, I have nothing to offer you. You are a singular person, like no one I’ve ever known. But I made a terrible mistake when I walked into Bart’s the other night. I’ve let you down. And if I don’t walk away from you right now, you’re going to end up broken, too.” 

“No, Sherlock.” 

“What?” Sherlock turned.

“No. You don’t get to do this to me.” Molly squared her shoulders. “Sherlock, you’re not so contemptuous as you pretend, and you are not heartless. Never forget, I watched you fall off a ten-storey building to save your friends, and no matter how well we had prepared, that could have gone wrong. But you stepped off that building anyway. Then you gave two years of your life to make sure your friends would be safe. Not exactly heartless. I’m not going to fall for that. It’s a dodge, Sherlock.”

He rounded on her. “Did you know I once proposed to a woman just to break into a building?”

“Oh, yes, I heard something about that. John was...talking about it one day. Well, venting. But Mary heard him, and she told me later that she had been friends with that woman before, and that she’d fed you information so you would break in. She hated and feared her boss and wanted to see him beaten...and when it didn’t work, she sold a lot of lies about you to the tabloids. So it sounds to me like you used each other.”

Sherlock half-smiled. “Fine. I admit I’d deduced her plan. Janine was greedy, but she wasn’t stupid. Isn’t. Regarding Charles Augustus Magnussen, she may be playing a longer game than any of us yet realise…” He steepled his fingers.

“Sherlock. You’re not going to change the subject.” 

Sherlock stared at her. Molly continued in a clear voice.

“You’re not heartless. You’re afraid. But not of getting me pregnant, not really. You’re afraid of letting anyone close to you. It’s not exactly an uncommon affliction, Sherlock, and you’re hardly the first man I’ve been with who has problems with intimacy, so you can stop feeling sorry for yourself and listen. Just listen.” She caught at his shoulder as he tried to turn away.

He seemed rather stunned, but after a moment he folded his arms. “Well, this ought to be an interesting exercise in asinine pop psychology.”

“And you’re not going to provoke me, either. I know your tricks. Sherlock, you didn’t eat or sleep for two days because of our last conversation. You care about me. That isn’t hard to understand. You care about me, and now you’re afraid of what you feel. That’s really the whole of it, Sherlock. You can’t hide from me. I know you too well.”

Sherlock took a ragged breath, then slowly reached out to touch her cheek. “Molly. I could tear you apart with ten words. You should be running.”

“No. Don’t try to scare me. It doesn’t work anymore.” Molly backed him into the wall. “I care about you, Sherlock. I want to be with you. So you have to decide whether you want to try to face up to your fear. Take a leap. If I’m worth it to you.”

Sherlock was silent. He looked as if he were choking. He stared at her face, not seeming to notice that he was sliding down the wall, folding up like a puppet. When his arse hit the linoleum, the mild shock and pain seemed to break him apart. His strange face crumpled up in a way that was almost grotesque, and tears broke out of his eyes.

Molly was shocked at the violence of his reaction. Her sense of clarity drained away, leaving a dreary numbness. Grimly, Molly got down beside him, wrapped her arms around his shaking body, and held on. 

It took a frighteningly long time for Sherlock to calm down. The logs on the fire broke again, spinning sparks up the flue. The front of Sherlock’s shirt was wet with tears by the time Molly noticed that he was breathing a bit more freely between those ghastly, wracking sobs. After a few more minutes, Sherlock raised his head and gazed damply at her. 

“Okay?” Molly asked gently, moving a bit of wet hair out of his eyes. 

“No,” he said grimly. “Not okay. Just then, I felt like I was falling again.”

Molly had nothing to say to that. She laid her head on his shoulder. Not where she’d expected to end up at the end of the night, Molly reflected. Sitting on the kitchen floor, failing to console a miserable consulting detective who badly needed a handkerchief. 

As if reading her mind, Sherlock reached out and tugged down a dishcloth that was hanging partially off the cluttered kitchen table. He noisily blew his nose. 

“Hm,” he said, looking down at the cloth. “I certainly hope this wasn’t the same one I used to mop up that battery acid.” 

It wasn’t that funny, but Molly couldn’t help it; she laughed. Sherlock boggled at her smile for a moment, then the corners of his mouth drew up. Just as quickly, the expression in his eyes changed again. 

“Molly. I want you,” he said frankly, urgently, almost cringing. “I need you, right now. Please.” 

Without hesitation, Molly got to her feet and hoisted him up as best she could. She swayed close to him and looked up into his face. Tall, Sherlock was so tall over her. “Then have me,” she said.

His face changed in a flash, and his hand shot up and clutched at her hair. He pulled her head backward, his eyes darkening with satisfaction at her yelp. 

“Molly, little Molly,” Sherlock ground out between his teeth, catching her wrist in his other hand and tucking it smoothly behind her back. “I’m going to tie you up and plug you prettily, and then I’m going to use your mouth. How does that sound, tiny little Molly?”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Molly whispered as her body responded with an intensity that left her weak and gasping.

“Good girl. Now,” he said, pushing her backward, “those clothes belong on the floor.”


	6. Chapter 6

With clumsy hands, Molly fumbled off her jumper, then opened her belt and let her trousers fall. She kicked off her socks and tugged her blouse quickly over her head, not bothering with the snaps and hoping not to hear the tiny pop of stitches giving way. 

She was starting to take off her bra and pants when Sherlock snapped, “No. Leave them on. And sit down!” He pushed her off balance so that she stumbled back a step and landed in John Watson’s soft chair. Sherlock stooped over her instantly like a predator bird.

“Hands on the back of the chair,” he ordered. Seemingly from nowhere, a large, single-bladed, certainly illegal knife appeared in his right hand. “Safeword, Molly.” 

“Skull,” she responded, her heart thundering, her eyes locked on the blade as Sherlock maneuvered the knife expertly, first against one hip bone, then the other, slicing the straps of her pants until they fell away. He did the same with her bra, cutting both straps at her shoulders, then sliding the tip of the knife tenderly up her breastbone and under the band between her breasts. He lifted, and the sharp blade parted the fabric with barely a whisper. 

Sherlock gave an inarticulate growl. His knife hand flashed up and jabbed the blade deep into the wall beside the fireplace, letting it hang there. Molly’s heart galloped at the sight, and she gave a little cry as he grasped her legs with both hands, shoved them open, and dived into her pussy. 

Sherlock worked and licked her hungrily. “Already slick for me,” he growled up at her, his hands reaching up to her breasts, thumbs snapping brutally hard over her nipples.

“Oh, god, Sherlock, skull, skull,” she panted.

Sherlock paused and lifted his head to look at her. “Tell me.”

“Just...go easy, please. On my nipples. Please.” Molly smiled at him, rather shyly. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, and his fingers started a delectable swirling motion on the tips of her breasts. 

“Yes, oh thank you, yes,” she murmured as he buried his face in her pussy again. 

“You’re grateful now,” Sherlock said against her flesh with an evil laugh. “Just wait, Molly.”

He pushed her hard toward orgasm, and it wasn’t long before Molly obliged him, twisting and sighing in the armchair. 

Seconds later, Sherlock jumped up and pulled her to her feet. Molly staggered, her legs still weak from climax and being stretched so far open. He administered a slap to her arse. 

“Up, Molly. Stay alert. If you’re going to please me, you’ll have to pay close attention. And don’t laugh,” he snapped, glowering at her dreamy smile. “Serving me is no laughing matter. Stand very close to the fire and put both hands on the mantelpiece. Eyes down.”

Molly faced the crackling flames and resisted the temptation to peek into the mirror as Sherlock walked around the sitting room, generating clatters and thuds. Then Sherlock was beside her, laying out her sheepskin just behind her heels. He guided her backward a few steps. “Kneel,” he said, and Molly dropped to her knees in the deep wool. “I’m going to tie you.”

Sherlock held an alarmingly long length of rope, very white, with a creamy sheen. He ran it through his hands, grinning unsettlingly down at her. “Let me see. You’re so innocent, Molly. Something simple to start...ushirote munenawa, I think. And kikkou. If you’re good, and if I have enough rope here.” 

He kicked off his shoes and crouched just behind her on the sheepskin. “Hands behind your back, Molly.”

Starting with the middle of the long rope, he bound her wrists together. He looped the rope tightly around her arms and under her breasts, then made another loop higher up, around her shoulders. She felt him weave an elaborate set of knots and connections at her back and behind her arms.

From there, Sherlock draped a line over each shoulder and reached around her to tie them between her breasts, catching in the loops around her chest and arms. The long free ends of rope ended up at the center of her chest like a lead. Reaching around her body, Sherlock tugged hard on that lead, tightening up her bondage; at the same time, he ground the hard lump in his trousers against Molly’s bottom. Molly sighed. The rope embraced her firmly.

“Safeword?” He purred into her ear. “Think about it for a moment, Molly, really feel it. Anything pinching or tingling?” His free hand roamed over the ropes, checking the firmness of the loops against her flesh.

“Skull,” Molly breathed. “Fine.” 

“Open your legs,” he whispered as the fire crackled and whispered in front of them. 

Still reaching around her, seemingly without looking, he tied a series of overhand knots in the doubled rope, all down her front. He pulled the rope between her legs, laying it firmly between the lips of her pussy and up into the cleft of her buttocks like a thong, and Molly realised that one of the hard little overhand knots was right against her clitoris. 

“Oh god, Sherlock,” she sighed, arching her body. Sherlock chuckled behind her as she wriggled for more sensation. He tugged up on the rope, making her gasp. “Stand.” He steadied her as she slowly got to her feet, her balance thrown off by having her arms tied behind her back. 

She twisted a little, testing her bonds. They were quite firm, just a little flexible, and definitely unbreakable. She’d stay tied until he decided to release her. The undeniable physical fact of her submission aroused her body until she felt faint. Her mind floated, free of any worry; Sherlock was there, watching her as only he could, keeping her safe, making it all possible. She watched Sherlock’s face in the firelight as he pulled the white ropes through his clever hands.

This Sherlock was so different to the pitiful man who had been crying on the kitchen floor just a half hour ago; Molly thought. His shirt front was still a little damp, and Molly could see salty trails on his cheeks. But his strange, slanting eyes were now utterly calm, and he moved with the easy confidence of an expert, weaving the lines around her back and belly into intricate diamond shapes, patterns over her flesh that were both beautiful and inescapable. 

As the ropes grew tighter and tighter around her torso, the thought occurred to Molly that he was somehow pulling composure from her, just for these moments, or perhaps she was passing it to him. Sherlock had badly needed this from her, needed to regain some sense of control over himself. Now, mastering her, focusing on nothing but her body and mind, he seemed at peace. 

“Your thoughts are wandering, Molly.” Sherlock was right in front of her, silhouetted against the flames. He hooked a finger under one the ropes near her pussy and tugged, moving the knot on her clit and causing her to stumble helplessly against his body. Her face pressed into his warm chest, and Molly moaned heavenward. He buried both hands in her hair, cradling and tilting her head, his voice heartbreakingly tender. “I directed you to pay attention. I think you may need a little reminder to help you remember to always...pay...attention.” 

He half pushed, half guided Molly down to sit on her heels, legs wide apart. She stared up at him, wriggling almost desperately in her harness as the knotted rope shifted against her clit.

He turned to the mantlepiece and picked up a black box, bringing it next to her face. When he opened it, Molly saw a bright metal object nestled in satin. An elegant curve of steel the size of a large man’s thumb, it had a heavy knob on one end, the size and general shape of a strawberry, and a flattened loop on the other. “Molly, I’m sure you can imagine where this is going to go.” 

Her heart pounded in her chest, and her mind quailed at the idea of taking the beautiful object into her bottom. But seemingly at his command, she found herself longing for the strange but delicious feeling of this, his most delicate violation.

Sherlock circled her, his sock feet almost disappearing into the sheepskin. She heard faint sounds behind her. He was opening a bottle, surely coating the steel object with lubricant. But when he knelt at her back, leaning his curly head on her shoulder, it was his warm fingers she felt first, pushing aside the ropes. Just as before, he circled, teased around the tiny hole, then gently pressed inside. 

“You’re so brave, Molly.” Sherlock’s lubricated finger slipped slowly, slowly in and out of her bottom. “Always so brave, giving me so much.” Another finger; the stretch burned inside her. He was blessedly still, and after a few seconds, the pain faded. He drew out of her, and she heard him snap off a rubber glove. After a moment, she felt the chilly touch of steel.

“Can you possibly conceive of how beautiful you are at this moment, Molly?” Sherlock’s voice caressed her, surrounded her like the heat of the fire. “Trussed in my bondage, in the most exquisite distress, accepting a heavy little plug into your tail. All for me. All because I want to see you like this. All because I asked.” Cool pressure, a gentle twist, and the knob of the plug seated itself inside her. 

Molly sobbed, almost with relief; the cold steel was soothing where she had felt the burn. It was very heavy indeed where it lay inside her bottom, and Molly knew that, like the rope, it would stay there until Sherlock was satisfied or she called her safeword. And though she was trembling, and tears were standing in her eyes, Molly knew she was a long way from doing that.

Sherlock came around in front of her again, and as he stood over her, his fingers went to the top button of his shirt. Molly hushed immediately and watched as the fabric parted to reveal the sparse hair of his chest, his lean belly, his dusky rose nipples. 

She drank in the sight of the sculpted shoulders and arms that led so logically down to those elegant hands. The tiny muscles that knit his ribs. The long throat laid bare. Everything she’d tried not to stare at when she had gone to see him in hospital, and he’d lain sleeping, so thin and pale. The surgical scar, still pink, that marked where his death had come so close.

Dress shirt discarded, Sherlock opened his belt and drew off his trousers and socks. There, the V of muscle defining his pelvis, the long, hard legs, the bony knees and feet. Finally, Sherlock stepped out of his underwear, and Molly saw the long cock freed in front of her face, heavy and red with desire. She breathed in the male musk of his body and arched her back with wanting, the plug a cool weight inside her arse, reminding her of his power.

“You’re paying attention now, aren’t you, Molly.” 

Molly was. Her mind was locked into the infinity of the present moment, with Sherlock naked before her, so close, the body that housed the wondrous mind. She was mesmerized by Sherlock’s chest expanding and contracting with the breath of his life, by his heartbeat throbbing in the vein that snaked down his cock. 

“Molly, I want to fuck you. I want your mouth, I want your cunt and your arse. I want all of you. Everything.”

“Yes, Sherlock. Yes.” 

“Want to feel your mouth,” Sherlock said, gathering a fistful of Molly’s hair. He reached back and took a condom packet from the mantlepiece. 

“No condom, Sherlock,” Molly said. “Need to taste you.”

“Molly, you were...calmer before, and you said then that you wanted condoms.”

“Sherlock.” Molly shook her head and took a breath. “I know what I want. You’ve tested clean, yes?”

“Never shared needles. Celibate since I returned to England. Tested two weeks ago, all clean.”

“Then put your cock in my mouth, Sherlock. Do it now.”

Sherlock’s grip on her hair tightened until Molly’s legs trembled with the force of the burn on her scalp. He dropped the condom, then gripped his cock and fed its length into Molly’s waiting mouth. 

Molly closed her eyes and savored the feeling of Sherlock’s penis sliding over her tongue. The silky skin tasted of musk and salt, and Molly poured everything she had into sucking, swirling, and pressing with her lips, wishing her hands were free to stroke him. She peeked upward, exulting in the grimace on Sherlock’s face, the sheen of sweat on his fine skin. The knot on her clit teased her, and the plug dragged at her insistently, never letting her forget the sensations in her own body.

Sherlock hissed with surprise when Molly relaxed her throat and took him in deeply. She calmly held down her gag reflex, drawing him in and out in obedience to the pressure of his fist in her hair. Watching Sherlock bracing himself against the mantelpiece and slowly coming undone inside her throat, she resolved never, ever to tell him who had taught her how to do this. 

Sherlock’s cock swelled in her mouth. “Close,” he ground out, relaxing his grip on her hair. Molly knew he was giving her a chance to avoid swallowing his semen. She drew him in deeper to let him know what she wanted. 

“God. Make your bottom dance for me, Molly,” Sherlock panted, closing his grip on her hair again, so hard that she felt his fist shaking. “I want you to squirm in your bonds, show me you feel that knot on your clit and that heavy plug up your arse.”

Molly obeyed him, moving her hips, and a choking moan tore its way out of her. With a low cry, Sherlock throbbed, and spilled himself in her throat. 

After a moment, his hand relaxed in her hair. Molly carefully let his softening cock slide out of her mouth, and raised her face to smile proudly up at him. 

“Molly. You...you are astounding.” Sherlock touched her face, then knelt beside her rather unsteadily. Reaching behind her back, he pulled at a loop of rope he’d left, and Molly felt the bonds on her wrists and arms fall apart. 

Slowly, gratefully, she straightened her elbows and let her hands fall down to her sides. Sherlock inspected the pink marks that the ropes had left on her flesh, running his fingers over her wrists. “How do you feel?” he asked. 

“Stiff,” she admitted, unwilling to have him undo any more of her harness quite yet. “And aching for you. Kiss me, Sherlock,” she begged. “And touch me. God, please touch me.”

Sherlock obliged, kissing her mouth soundly, then her eyelids, face, throat, and breasts. He toppled her over in his arms so that they tumbled together on the sheepskin, naked limbs tangling. He cradled her, one hand entwined in the loosened ropes around her shoulders, the other stroking her pussy and tugging on the knotted rope that still lay tightly against her flesh. He watched her face, cataloguing every little gasp, every flutter of her eyelids, refining his technique second by second, seeking to grant her release. 

Molly came in a crescendo of warmth, bucking her hips and crying out as she felt the plug shift inside her bottom and wrench a few more sharp pangs out of her. Her breath coming in hitches, she relaxed against Sherlock, barely noticing when he drew the plug slowly out. 

He laid her down on the deep wool and gently removed the rest of the rope from her body, setting it aside and returning to slide his warm skin against hers. She cuddled against his chest. The fire was burning low, and Molly was floating down into sleep.

“Sherlock, beautiful,” Molly sighed. “You’re so beautiful, Sherlock, you...all of you.” 

“I know. Drink this, Molly,” Sherlock directed, holding a bottle of water against her mouth. Molly gulped thirstily. “Finish the bottle and I’ll let you sleep.” 

Molly did, and he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you've enjoyed. Lots more to come! Concrit and betas (especially Brit-picking!) very welcome, by the way…Thank you so much for reading, and have a beautiful weekend. Updating again soon.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...In which Molly completely fails to get dressed. :D
> 
> Now with Brit-picking from the fab aberlioness!

Molly propped her head on her arm and watched Sherlock as he lay beside her, still wrapped in a heavy slumber despite the sunlight that was starting to peek into the bedroom. She’d expected that he would sleep with his long limbs sprawled across the bed any which way, but Sherlock slept curled into himself, pillowing one arm under his head, the sunlight picking out red highlights in his dark curls. She dearly wanted to touch that beautiful face, to stroke those brows, but resolved to let him rest. Still making up lost sleep, Molly thought, weighing the idea of getting up and seeking out some means of caffeine delivery in that rather scary kitchen. 

Sherlock stirred and inhaled. Without opening his eyes, he said, "Molly. You’re here." 

"I am. I seem to have ended up in your bed."

"Couldn't wrap us both in your sheepskin. I carried you here, after," he said, stretching; the play of muscle and ribs moving under his skin made Molly’s mouth curve with pleasure.

"At any rate, I can't leave the flat," she said. "It seems that last night, someone destroyed my underwear. If this keeps happening I'm going to need an expense account to keep myself in pants," Molly scolded, half serious. 

Without warning, Sherlock surged up and seized Molly's wrists, bringing them up over her head. He hovered just over her, his chest brushing her nipples.

"I think you should stop wearing pants altogether," he growled. "Get rid of all your trousers, while you're at it. I want you bare under your skirts, always ready for me." 

His cock stirred on her belly. "In fact, why should you wear clothes at all? I ought to carry you off to my family's house in the country," he purred, holding her wrists in one hand and pulling on his thickening cock with the other. "On some warm summer day. Then I'll take all your clothes away, keep you naked always,” he told her, his eyes traveling down her body in that slow, insolent way of his. “Oh, yes, this is a very good idea. I want you kneeling on your silken pillow at my feet...soft and wet and ready. You'll wear nothing, nothing but the heirloom diamonds in your hair..."

Panting, Molly closed her eyes and saw herself under a white canopy, sitting on that silken pillow beside Sherlock's wicker lawn chair, a vast green field stretching before them into a wooded distance. Sherlock was lounging comfortably, perhaps sipping a glass of smoky liquor, and lacing idle fingers through her elaborate crown of glittering braids. In her imagination, Molly felt his fingers tighten and pull her head toward his lap. 

"Yes, and anytime I wish, I will require service from my little servant girl," Sherlock said in her ear, insinuating a thigh between her legs. Molly crooned as she twisted under him, her pussy crushed deliciously against his hard leg. His hand left his cock for a moment to torment her nipples. "I will expect her to serve me with superior effort and perfect devotion. And if my little servant is naughty or mouthy, she'll be punished. In front of all the household staff." 

Molly moaned, seeing herself on display on a table in a grand room, on all fours as Sherlock administered a sound spanking, while many, many lascivious pairs of eyes watched her quivering body, her red face. She ground her cunt harder into his thigh.

In a moment, Sherlock was gasping and pouring out warm white gouts of liquid onto her belly and breasts. "Ah, Molly," he panted. "Ah, god. Keep your hands on the headboard."

He backed down the bed and settled his face between her legs, and it didn't take long for Molly to come hard against his wicked, ravenous mouth. 

*****

Molly was hungry, but she didn't want to get out of bed; she was drunk on Sherlock’s warm skin. Sherlock had brought a damp flannel and wiped away his semen, and now he was lounging on his back and letting her run her hands all over his lean body. For all they’d done together, she’d never really got to touch him.

"I rather expected you would be circumcised," she told him, combing her fingers through the lacy dark hair around his cock. 

“Why so?” he asked her, his eyes shutting lazily.

“Well, I heard somewhere that...posh boys were all cut, that it was traditional.”

"Mmm. Holdover from Queen Victoria's day. Her Majesty fondly believed it would keep her little princes from tossing off, in which strategy of course both she and the following gentry were sadly mistaken. But it hasn’t been the thing for a few decades now. Certainly wasn’t the case at my school.”

"What school did you go to, Sherlock?" Molly asked, curious.

"The one with the straw hats," he said offhandedly. 

"Oh." Definitely a public school boy, then, as she’d assumed. Well, country house, boarding school, none of it was really a surprise. Sherlock advertised “posh” with every word and gesture.

“It can be useful on cases, very occasionally. If I’m looking at an unidentified male corpse over a certain age that suits the class profile in other particulars, circumcision status can tip the balance of probability and aid identification.”

Molly laughed at the image of Lestrade’s expression as Sherlock casually tugged open the trousers of a hapless elderly corpse. It didn’t take Sherlock more than a half-second to guess what she might be seeing in her head. He smirked.

“I believe that was the day Lestrade stopped telling off Donovan when she called me a freak.”

Molly laughed even harder, thinking of the sergeant’s expressive face next to Lestrade’s. 

“So, boarding school, then, Sherlock. Any canings?” Molly teased, rolling next to him on her belly. “Did they make you ‘assume the position’? Should I be thanking the board of education for all your kinky urges, then?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m afraid this particular paraphilia is idiopathic, Doctor Hooper.”

Molly made a noise of disappointment, but Sherlock caught her eye and grinned. “I was all too precocious as a teenager, but thankfully it wasn’t the professors whose company I enjoyed. Several of my classmates were more than willing to help with my early experiments.”

“Oh, really?” Molly asked, eyes wide.

"Much as I loathed going to an all-boys school due to limited choice, in retrospect it was a very good thing that I didn't have access to young girls my own age. Aside from other potential complications, where nosy staff were concerned it would have been much harder to pass off that kind of thing as ‘wrestling.’”

“My god, Sherlock,” Molly said, giggling. “You’re really unbelievable.”

“You should talk, Doctor Hooper. You have Catholic school girl written all over you, filthy thing. I ought to question you about where that mouth has been. Still have the skirt?” He eyed her speculatively. “Though it might be rather chilly now that you’ve given up wearing pants.” 

Molly hit him with a pillow, or tried to. He caught it handily, then pulled her bodily to him and crushed her lips to his mouth.

When they finally broke apart and lay forehead to forehead on the disputed pillow, Molly decided to tell him what she’d been thinking.

“Sherlock, about last night.”

“Mmm?” He grunted, his eyes shut. “I’m still not your boyfriend, Molly.”

“I---oh. I knew that, I guess.” And she had. What they were certainly didn’t quite fit that description, but…

“What are you, then?” she asked, her old hesitancy with him creeping back on cold feet. “What are we...to each other, Sherlock?” 

“Oh Molly, what does that matter? Why do you need a descriptor? I’m a man you’ve agreed to let dominate you in bed. A man who harbors a small measure of sentimental weakness for you, as we so painfully established last night. But not a man you can ask to Christmas dinner at your family’s, so don’t even attempt it.” 

Molly pressed her lips together unhappily. She sat up. “Who says I was going to ask you to Christmas dinner, Sherlock? Jesus.” Though in a few short weeks, her mother would inevitably ask her the usual questions about her love life, and as usual, she would try not to think of him as she gave unsatisfactory answers. But no, she wouldn’t dwell on that. 

Sherlock’s face was so guarded as he lay looking up at her. After a moment, he said, “This wasn’t really what you wanted to talk about, though, was it?”

“No,” she said. “I was going to ask you if it would help if I were to get an IUD,” she said in a rush. “I’d been thinking of changing over anyway, my friend Beth is an OB-GYN and she’s been telling me it’s a wonderful method, so simple and it works immediately and so well, so long as it stays in, and the male partner can verify it’s still in there, and then I could stay on the pill as well and then you and I could…”

Sherlock was frowning, almost in confusion. “You’d have an IUD placed, and stay on the pill, just so that we can have penetrative sex?”

“Yes, Sherlock, I would, of course I would. If it would help.” 

“But it’s your body, Molly. I can’t ask you to do that just because of my paranoia.” He sat up and took her hand. 

“No, you can’t. That’s why I’m offering. You said you wanted me, Sherlock, last night. You remember what you said. And I want you too. So think about it.”

“Hmm. Mathematically, the chances of conception would be infinitesimal with those two methods, especially in a woman your age,” he said, steepling his fingers and not seeing Molly’s wince at the reminder of her biological clock. “Molly, that just might work. But only if it honestly will not harm you in any way. I want your word on that. You’ve done enough for my sake.”

“I’ll ask Beth,” Molly promised. “She’s not a big fan of yours, so she won’t exactly be biased in favor. But I can trust her to tell me the truth, regardless. And then...”

A little silence fell. Molly allowed herself to stare at him, running her eyes brazenly over his gloriously naked body, consciously mimicking his trick of looking her over with unabashed prurience. Molly was gratified to see his cock stiffening where it lay against his leg. 

“And then, little Molly,” he said, “I will teach you what it is to truly be possessed by Sherlock Holmes. Bring that sweet mouth here, girl. I have a sudden craving for warm wetness.” 

“Wait, Sherlock, I’ll need to eat breakfast eventually,” Molly said, holding out both hands as he advanced upon her. “It’s half eleven. I’m getting very hungry, Sherlock. How do you function, not eating?” 

“Oh, fine,” Sherlock moaned. “I suppose letting you starve to death in my bed does not constitute proper care of my beautiful little pathologist. I guess I can feed you before I require your mouth again. One moment.”

Sherlock seized his dressing gown and bounded out of the bedroom. Molly followed more slowly, remembering that Sherlock never locked his door; Mrs Hudson could run up at any moment. Hearing Sherlock’s voice, she drew back, but it seemed he was talking on his phone.

“Yes, the usual order but twice over. There’s twenty quid in it for you if you make it up in fifteen minutes. Wonderful.”

He turned to her as she stole toward him. “See, Molly? No need for you to wear clothes ever again. I’ve phoned a mate who works at a restaurant nearby, so breakfast will be here soon. Let me see now. Oh, tea.”

Sherlock put the kettle on, then got out mugs. Two minutes later, he set a steaming mug in front of Molly as she sat on the couch and tucked a blanket around her. Then he flopped down in his own chair, his dressing gown falling open in a way Molly found rather distracting, and started texting at the speed of sound. 

“When I got out the milk I remembered that I’ve been meaning to get Mr Fischer’s foot and hand back to you, Molly,” he said as his fingers flew over the touchscreen. “Metatarsals and metacarpals are a bit fractured now.”

“I don’t think Mr Fischer will mind,” Molly ventured, picking up the mug. Sherlock favored her with a scowl and continued to text. 

“What have I told you about jokes, Molly? You may need a little reminder. Later. For now, tell me the news at the morgue. Any interesting new cases?”

Sipping her tea, Molly told Sherlock about the forensic autopsy she’d performed the previous morning on a rich old lady who’d died suddenly under her daughter’s care. Very obvious signs in her GI tract indicated that she’d been poisoned, almost certainly by the daughter herself, who stood to inherit. But the old lady herself had been full of surprises, including old, mysterious scars; a rather astonishing array of plastic surgeries, including the first set of buttock-enhancing implants Molly had ever seen in person; and to top it off, a classic case of situs inversus.

“Yes, that’s right,” she told him, tucking her blanket around her feet. “Heart on the right side, liver and gallbladder on the left. Stomach, lungs, everything switched around. It just happens sometimes, probably as a combination of genetic and developmental factors. If it’s a complete switch, it doesn’t hurt you at all. It’s when the switch is incomplete that things can get dodgy.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock said. “Nerves and everything? Any way to tell from the outside?”

“Nerves too, and all the organs and structures are chiral to their usual shapes,” she told him. “If the person is alive, and you happen to have a stethoscope and know what to listen for, heart sounds will be on the right side. Otherwise, aside from medical imaging, there’s no way to tell without actually cutting them open. So it’s usually an incidental finding, like it was yesterday. And it’s pretty rare, Sherlock, around one in ten thousand births.”

“Pity. Ah,” he said as the doorbell sounded. “That’s the sound of my eventual oral gratification.” 

It transpired that Sherlock had ordered them four full English breakfasts, which he placed on the low table by the couch. Molly was famished and ate one-and-a-half of them, while Sherlock devoured the rest. He was actually homing in on her last piece of bacon before Molly neatly parried his fork with her own. 

“Dark and sinister man, have at thee,” she said, pointing her fork at him. 

“What? Are you quoting something?” But there was a pleased smile on Sherlock’s face, and not a hint of confusion. 

Just then, the door opened, and Mrs Hudson tripped in daintily with a laden tea tray. 

“Good morning, dear. Heard the doorbell, you’re up ear---”

Mrs Hudson looked up from the table and saw Molly. She was completely covered by her blanket, so it wouldn’t have been so bad except that Sherlock had hastily closed his dressing gown, under which he was still very obviously naked. 

Mrs Hudson’s mouth opened and closed a few times, looking as though her conception of the cosmos were being re-ordered. 

“Oh dear, sorry loves.” Mrs Hudson finally found her voice. “I was just so surprised that Sherlock actually made tea. I’d better leave this anyway,” she said, setting down the tray between them and touching Molly’s shoulder. “Sherlock’s tea isn’t very good, is it dear, so do enjoy. I’ll be up later for the tray.”

And with a motherly smile at the both of them, Mrs Hudson withdrew and closed the door behind her. 

“Well, that was a bit awkward,” Molly said as Sherlock gave her a wry smile and helped himself to a biscuit. 

“Not really. She knows about you and me, of course. In fact she knew you were coming to Baker Street before you did. Mrs Hudson takes all my package deliveries, and I’ve been getting a few unusual ones recently. She's being rather disgustingly supportive. In fact she’s been cleaning rather aggressively lately, and bringing up piles of extra towels and flannels.”

“Oh,” was all Molly could say. 

“And then you announced your presence rather unmistakeably during your little spanking the other day. To Mrs Hudson as well as all the neighbors.”

“Oh,” she said again.

“Don’t pretend you don’t have an exhibitionist streak a mile wide, Molly Hooper. Though perhaps Mrs Hudson is not quite your first choice of voyeurs. We’ll have to do something about indulging your wish to be put on display, and sooner than you might imagine,” he said, pulling her to her feet.

Molly rose, eyes aglow with interest, pliant in his hands. Still, it was rather a waste...“But Sherlock, the tea.” 

“You’ve had your tea, Molly. Now it’s time for your bath.”

He took her hand and guided her toward the bathroom, carelessly shedding his dressing gown on the kitchen floor. His hand on the small of her back, he pushed her ahead of him into the surprisingly clean bathroom and onto a soft bath mat. 

“Kneel, Molly,” he told her, closing the door behind them and opening the taps on a huge clawfoot tub. Water thundered against the porcelain. Sherlock leaned against the wall, careless of his nudity, folded his arms, and gave her a cool smile. 

Kneeling quietly at his feet as Sherlock drew her bath, Molly felt herself falling once again into that state of receptivity and arousal. Vaguely, she wondered whether he would make her bathe him, wash his hair, shave him…? She caught sight of a straight razor on a shelf beside her and felt a moment of anxiety. She didn’t know how to use---

“You’re thinking, Molly. Stop it,” Sherlock said, glowering down at her like a storm cloud. “Right now I just want you to feel. Get up and into the tub,” he said. “Don’t sit down for now, just stand.”

Carefully, he handed her into the tub, where Molly obediently stood, shivering a little, hot water partway up her calves. Her feet found the security of a rubber mat on the bottom of the tub.

Sherlock took a battered, tarnished silver pitcher out from somewhere under the tub and filled it with hot bathwater. Slowly, he poured it out over her shoulder, watching Molly sigh as the water cascaded down in a fleeting cloak of warmth. He refilled the pitcher, and as he was pouring the second torrent of water down her body, he leaned in and latched his mouth onto her nipple. 

Moaning, Molly cradled his curly head against her. He hungrily kissed and licked both of her breasts until the nipples were swollen and dark pink. “Lovely, Molly. But look, you’re covered in saliva, so filthy. We need to get you clean,” he scolded.

He reached for a bar of pure white soap and lathered it between his hands, then soaped her breasts and belly. “Arms up. Can you reach that pipe? No? Then just raise your arms and I’ll steady you.”

Sherlock leaned closer to the bath and pulled her soapy body against his dry chest. Holding her firmly, his hard cock against her hip, Sherlock quickly washed her arms and neck. "Now you’ve done it, Molly, you brat. Now I have to get in there with you and rinse off all this soap,” he said, pushing her arms down. “Sit.”

He assisted her down, then got into the bath, sitting behind her. “Lean back against me. I know this is a favourite position of yours, but don’t think you’re not still in trouble for getting me all soapy and for being short,” he said, reaching to the floor for the silver pitcher. “Keep your head up.”

Sherlock poured a pitcherful of water over her hair, then took a bottle of shampoo from a basket mounted on the tile wall. He lathered his hands and plunged his fingers into her hair.

Molly beamed at the taps across the tub as Sherlock’s fingertips massaged her scalp. All too soon, he was finished and she felt two, three, four more pitchers of water over her head, Sherlock’s other hand shielding her eyes from errant drips of water. 

He followed the shampoo with a conditioner, and Molly luxuriated in the deliciously familiar scents of the products as well as his fingers in her hair. She recognized the products as matching the scent of Sherlock’s own hair, and Molly was strangely thrilled at the idea that she would smell like Sherlock afterwards. Everyone who came close would know she belonged to him...

"Wash your face, Molly," he ordered, waving a bottle of mild cleanser in front of her. She obeyed, wondering how many times he'd bathed a lover before; he seemed to know that the idea of him washing her face for her was a little uncomfortable. Too much risk of getting soap in eyes or nose. She rinsed quickly. 

“Time to get you really clean, Molly. Clean all over.” Sherlock’s hands were parting her legs. Molly put her head back onto his shoulder and keened as he touched her pussy with both hands. “Plenty of soap in the bathwater already...no need to scrub this sensitive little spot. All it will take is a little rubbing.” 

Her natural moisture was being washed away almost as soon as it arose in her, so Sherlock was gentle, pressing more than stroking, slipping one finger inside her and keeping it tightly inside until Molly was crooning. 

“More, Sherlock, I need to be full. Please, Sherlock.”

“Oh, you’d like some fullness?” Sherlock said, bringing his hands up out of the water and reaching behind his head. Molly heard the creak of a bottle cap. “Would you really.” His hands came under the water again, but only one resumed the sweet pressure on her pussy. The other…

Molly trembled as a slick finger squirmed against the hole in her bottom. “Waterproof lubricant,” Sherlock chuckled richly behind her. “You’re so pure and virginal in some ways, Molly, despite your hunger. You can’t expect me not to give in to the temptation to indulge in a little mischief. Besides,” he whispered, his finger opening her, “you’re loving this. Aren’t you, Molly. Say it.”

“Sherlock yes. I love it,” Molly said, her face scarlet against his neck. His cock moved against her back.

“Love what? Tell me, Molly.”

“Love you...your finger up my arse,” she gasped, feeling her orgasm starting to coil deep inside her pelvis. 

He drew his hands away. “Up, Molly. No use trying to get you clean. Clearly.” 

He got out of the bath, then carefully supported her as she climbed out on unsteady legs. He grabbed two towels, wrapping one around Molly and briskly toweling her off, ignoring the water streaming off his own body and onto the floor. “Oh, sod it,” he said, grabbing her shoulders and turning her around. Opening the glass side door, he pushed her into the bedroom, clutching the little black bottle of lubricant.

“On the bed. No, wait,” he said quickly, and cast himself down on his back, uncaring of getting his sheets wet. He folded a pillow behind his head. “Lie on top of me, Molly. Cunt in my face, and take my cock in your mouth. Right now.” 

Molly scrambled to settle herself belly to belly with Sherlock, straddling his chest as best she could, grateful when he drew his arms up over his head to make it easier for her. She captured his cock in one hand and sucked it into her mouth, giving a muffled groan as she felt his tongue lapping at her clit and his wicked finger slipping into her bottom again. 

Molly worked his cock as well as she could with her hand and mouth, trying not to get too distracted as Sherlock feasted on her cunt. But she really did lose her focus completely, snapping her head back and wailing, as his tongue swiped all the way up her pussy and up her perineum and swirled around her puckered hole.

His tongue was on her anus, and insistently pushing inside. Molly felt her face and ears burning; she had hardly thought of such a thing. Yet it was happening to her body, and she couldn’t contain herself as the delicate sensation swirled up her spine. 

Helplessly, she whimpered as the fingers of his other, clean hand stroked her pussy and his mouth continued ravishing her arse. His cock was forgotten in her grip as Molly leaned into Sherlock’s mouth and hand, his lubricant-coated fingers gripping one buttock hard and kneading the flesh. Above him, Molly pushed her arms up straight and arched her back, crying out for more, more.

Sherlock gave a low roar and surged up, bouncing Molly off him and onto her back. Instantly he was over her, his mouth wet and red and snarling. 

“At this moment I want to fuck your arse more than anything in the universe,” he growled, his eyes boring into hers. “Should I, Molly? Should I fuck your arse? Should I bend you over and take you up your hot little bottom until your cunt is dripping onto this bed?”

Molly lay still, panting, her face still blazing hot with embarrassment and arousal, unable to rip her eyes away from his beautiful, dangerous face. After a moment, the feral glint in Sherlock’s eyes faded. 

“Not just yet, I think, Molly,” he said, settling back against the headboard, half his face in shadow. “All in good time. But I think I’ll start your training now,” he continued, reaching over to his bedside drawer and pulling out a medium-sized butt plug. Tearing open a condom packet, he sheathed the soft rubber object and quickly coated it in more lubricant. “Present your bottom, Molly.”

Her limbs weak and trembling, she crawled over to him and knelt on all fours, arse in his face, the low winter sun streaming in through the window and bathing one side of her body in light. “Arms down, shoulders against the bed. Oh, I just can’t resist this pretty little opening of yours,” he murmured before swiping his tongue against her once more. “Now relax,” he said, and Molly felt the cool, slick plug. He hardly had to press before it was well seated inside her. 

“I dearly wish my mouth were clean, Molly, but this will have to do,” he whispered, his clever fingers rubbing and stroking her aching pussy. His other hand slowly and rhythmically pressed the plug in her bottom, stirring deep sensations; Molly keened as Sherlock steadily pulled her beyond shyness, beyond shame, into a white-hot place in the far distance, where her body was held, trembling, over an ocean of heat. He pulled her hard over the edge, and Molly fell, screaming her ecstasy into the damp sheets. 

He let her pant there for only a moment before tapping her on the hip. “Up, Molly. My turn. Mouth on my cock, now.” 

Molly turned on her hands, her arms wobbling, and bent to take him into her mouth. Sherlock didn't pull her hair this time, though Molly found herself wishing he would. Instead, he lounged casually against the headboard and watched her serving him with a smile that held a glint of teeth. 

"Do that thing you did last night, Molly, that was gorgeous," he told her, his voice growing rough and dark. When Molly obediently relaxed her throat to take him deeply, Sherlock groaned helplessly. 

"I love you serving me like this, Molly," he panted. "So devoted. So willing. Oh, Molly, I'm close." 

This time, Molly wanted to watch him. She drew her mouth off and stroked him slow and hard, looking into his face. His eyes closed, he dropped his head backward, exposing his white throat; his eyes opened wide to the ceiling. "Ah...ah...Molly," he breathed, pulsing in Molly's hand, his release spilling onto her fingers.

After a moment, Sherlock slid down to lie on the bed, then gathered Molly against him. "Thank you, Molly," he whispered. "Your submission is truly a gift. And thus far you have never failed to astonish me with your grace and courage. Thank you for being with me here, Molly." 

"Mmm," Molly said, awash in a sudden, senseless fatigue. She was vaguely aware of him cleaning her hand with some kind of wet wipe, then using a few more on himself.

"Sleep just a little, Molly," he said, stroking her back. Was his face a bit sad? Molly blinked once, then dropped her head on his shoulder and felt the thought drift away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...So "outercourse" can be hot, right? But Molly's not going to be satisfied with that...I certainly wouldn't. ;) Thank you for reading. More coming right up!


	8. Chapter 8

Molly soon awoke, and she and Sherlock parted. Molly left to feed her cat and get ready for her young colleague’s hen party in the evening, and Sherlock stayed to do his routine strength training and god knew what else with his evening. When Molly left him, he was already pounding out one-handed push-ups, his feet up on his chair for greater resistance, and managing not to look the least bit undignified. Quite the opposite, Molly thought as she walked home, remembering how all the wiry muscles in his arm and back had stood out in sculpted relief under his porcelain skin. The pleasant thought occurred that he’d been showing off for her; Molly added that to the list of things that were currently making her smile, right after the deep, delicious ache he’d left in her pelvis. 

The hen party was less intolerable than most others she’d attended, even though the bride, a technician Molly had met during her surgical rotation, was younger and far more vivacious than herself, and blonde as well, with full, beautiful breasts that Molly could never achieve without the aid of surgery. And, of course, she was bound to get married; a Christmas wedding. Ordinarily, Molly would have felt a bit sad and grey over it all, and ordered an extra drink, but tonight she smiled to herself, remembering Sherlock’s teeth and tongue on her own nipples, his hands in her own brown hair. He would never want her to augment her body, despite any cutting comments he’d made in the past. “Never, ever change anything about yourself, Molly,” he’d ordered her before giving her a hard snog goodbye, “not one atom.” He might also have mentioned something about texting her later, but she’d still been focusing on the previous bit.

“Molly, what are you thinking of?” Beth asked her as they sat at a table with their overpriced drinks and watched the younger women dance. 

“Just thinking about...men,” Molly replied, twiddling her paper umbrella and smiling out at her friends and colleagues as they gyrated under the spinning lights that seemed to come standard at these clubs, part and parcel with all the ordinary men. Sports fans, sales reps, line cooks, tame and bland men, gulping their ordinary lagers and giving out their ordinary pick-up lines. Molly knew in her bones that not one of them would ever be capable of pushing her as she craved to be pushed, holding her down with a strength that was absolutely implacable, forcing her through pain and pleasure with an iron fist in her hair until she was helplessly keening with want.

“You mean you’re thinking about one man, that Sherlock prat,” Beth said with a poorly concealed roll of her eyes. “You spent all night with him, didn’t you, Molly Hooper.” 

“Is it that obvious?” Molly turned to Beth. Her best friend could be unnervingly perceptive. Molly hadn’t got round to confiding in her yet, but now she was suddenly afraid that Beth would somehow be able to tell exactly what Molly and Sherlock had got up to. Some of which Beth would be bound to disapprove of on medical grounds...

“Dreamy smiles at a hen party, where normally you look a bit pinched around the edges,” Beth replied. “It’s obvious. You’re limerant. You’ve gone and fallen in love with that cold-hearted idiot, haven’t you.” Beth closed her eyes once, then shook her head. 

“I can’t help it, Beth. There’s no one like him anywhere, nobody at all. And I’m not sorry, Beth, so I can’t apologize.” 

“And I bloody well know there’s not a thing I can say that will change your mind. You’re too far gone. Years too far.” Beth took a heavy swallow of her drink. “Well, you know I love you like I love my sister, Molly Hooper. And I’ll be here for you,” she said, hugging her friend with one arm, and Molly knew she was leaving the words unspoken: here for you when it all goes to shit. Molly looked at Beth, and they shared an unspoken knowledge of inevitability. Though the silent dread was there deep in her bones, Molly was secretly grateful that Beth wasn’t saying anything more, letting her look away from that dark future for the moment.

“Does he know?” Beth asked presently.

“Yes, I think he does,” Molly said, remembering the terrible moments in Sherlock’s sitting room, just the previous night; it seemed so long ago now.

“Did he say how he feels about you?” 

“I think the phrase he used was ‘a sentimental weakness,’” Molly smiled brightly to cover her uncertainty. “For Sherlock, that’s practically a proposal plus a tattoo. Oh, and he undressed for me, Beth!” Molly knew it all sounded lame the minute the last sentence left her mouth.

“Well, hallelujah, call up the choir. Was it everything you’d hoped for?” 

“Oh. Well.” Molly saw his body in her mind, and let her mouth curve into a wicked smile. “I ought not to kiss and tell, but...He’s a danger to society. He ought to be locked up for the good of all women. Men too, it seems,” she added, grinning.

“Good of all society, eh. Well, we knew that,” Beth twisted her mouth, then gave in and laughed. 

She’d always enjoyed Molly’s jokes, even when they were inappropriately dark or otherwise unfortunate. She’d laughed at Molly’s nervous wisecracks the day they’d met, when Molly was flat on her back on the exam table and Beth’s gloved hands were probing what Beth had cheerfully called her “lady zone.” “There’s that cervix!” she’d exclaimed as Molly had giggled in response to her barmy crack about lying back and thinking of England. After Molly’s appointment, they’d run into each other in the little pub between Bart’s and Beth’s clinic, and though at first it had felt a bit like dating one’s teacher, they’d been fast friends ever since. 

Best friends with her gynecologist, kinky-lovers-with-but-not-dating a famous local weirdo, forensic pathologist of choice for the Yard’s toughest and most gruesome cases. Molly Hooper rather thought her life had become more interesting than most people probably guessed, if they guessed at all, which seemed doubtful.

“Beth,” Molly ventured. “I’ve been needing to ask your advice. In your professional capacity, actually.”

“Ah, okay. Do my best.”

“Well, is there any reason I couldn’t have an IUD and keep taking the pill at the same time?” 

“Why would you want to do that, Molls?” Beth frowned.

Molly told Beth about Sherlock’s problem, leaving out the part about Joshua for Sherlock’s sake, but Beth guessed it. Molly should have known she would.

“He already got someone up the duff, didn’t he,” Beth said, sighing. 

“Fifteen years ago. Someone he didn’t love,” Molly told her. In for a penny….

“No surprise there. And now he’s got a little hang-up that _you_ have to contend with. I’m liking him more and more every second,” Beth grumbled. “Well, Molly, there’s really not a specific reason not to use an IUD and the pill together, though it’s bloody redundant, and neither are free of side effects. You would probably use the copper one, though, not the hormone one, since you’ve already got hormones in the pill. But if you have a lot of cramping from the IUD, or any other problems, my advice would be to discontinue it, and...just let him deal with himself. He’s not worth it, Molly.”

“Well, if there’s no reason not to try it, I want an IUD,” Molly resolved, looking away. “Should I call your clinic to make an appointment?”

Beth pressed her lips together. “I hate to say this, Molly, but I don’t feel comfortable doing this for you. What I think about your relationship could be affecting my professional judgment. You had better go to somebody else this time. Sorry, Molls.”

“That’s all right, Beth. I understand.” And Molly did. She wouldn’t want to see a friend laid out on a slab in her morgue, after all. She congratulated herself for not saying that bit out loud; Beth didn’t seem like she’d appreciate it much at the moment.

Peering over at Beth, who was looking a bit miserable, Molly felt a stab of sadness but couldn’t find a single reason to fault her friend for her poor opinion of Sherlock. Looking into her own glass, Molly felt a creeping coldness in the pit of her stomach despite the alcohol, and heard a whisper: _mistake, you’re making a mistake._ She shoved the thought away and emptied her drink down her throat, then pulled Beth out onto the dance floor.

The next day, Molly made an appointment at another clinic with a doctor that Beth had recommended. She was determined to insist on the placement of the IUD in the same appointment. She’d tell the doctor she wanted it due to her own anxiety over pregnancy, and hoped the doctor didn’t refer her to the psych department instead. Whether or not she actually needed the psych department, Molly did not care to examine.

****

Sherlock texted her late the next evening just as Molly was getting ready to go to sleep.

_You’re being far too distracting, Molly. Stop it immediately._

Molly smiled. _Where are you?_

_Crime scene. Which is to say, not in bed with you. I have to wait for the Yard to crib up my solution; it’s incredibly tedious. And Lestrade keeps fantasizing about the smell of your hair and the pretty tears you cry and the way your thighs quiver when you come. Damn him._

She laughed aloud and blushed, and the worries she’d been carrying started to lift a little. 

_Projection, Sherlock?_

_Not remotely. The man’s quite obsessed. Keeps using words that start with m, like murder and mandible and microscopic hair analysis. If he says molecule or mollusk I don’t see how I can be expected to ignore it any longer. No court in the land would convict me, Molly._

Trust Sherlock to find a way to sound lustful, dangerous, and petulant all at the same time, all over SMS.

_Molly, what are you doing, or more to the point, what will you be doing an hour from now?_

_Sleeping, Sherlock. My shift starts at seven in the morning._

_I suppose you’re going to tell me I ought not to come to your flat tonight. Damn Lestrade, keeping me at this godforsaken warehouse on purpose. He’s onto us, Molly, and he’ll stop at nothing. That’s it, I’m rifling through his wallet and drawing pig noses on all these sad photos of his worthless cheating wife._

Molly spared a moment of pity for the put-upon DI. _I would have liked for you to come over. But I really need to sleep._

_Well, you would get some sleep. Always drowsy after I’ve finished enjoying your body, aren’t you, you soft thing._

_Tomorrow, Sherlock._ Oh, he was going to make it hard for her to get to sleep, wasn’t he.

_You and I are going out on Tuesday, Molly. It will go late. You have Wednesday off this week, yes? If you don’t, trade your shift. See to it. And come to Baker Street tomorrow night to pick up all your kit for Tuesday._

_Kit?_ Molly’s eyes grew wide. An outing? A date? That required him to equip her?

_Do you have an IUD yet?_

_It’s only been one day, Sherlock! I’ll have it Thursday morning._

_Good thing you’re taking the day off Thursday as well so I can spend it ravishing you up one side of my bed and down the other._

Excitement jolted in her belly. _I can’t, Sherlock, I have a board meeting!_

_Don’t make me force Mycroft to start a war, Molly. People will suffer. Best if you simply take the day off._

She was sure he was joking. Pretty sure. Oh, so tempting. But… _Friday, Sherlock. Friday evening._

_Have it your way, but know that there will be punishment for your wilfulness, starting right now. No sleeping allowed until you’ve been a good little girl and come for me. Use that ridiculous rodent vibrator. Damn, Lestrade is demanding I stop texting, clearly spoiling for a duel, got to go. Good night, my Molly._

_Good night, my mad genius. I love you._

Molly stared at the text she’d written out, wanting and fearing to hit send. Her thumb hovered over the button. 

Not the way to tell him, in a text, Molly thought, and backspaced, sending only the first two words. He kept telling her she was brave, so she would just tell him to his face. Soon. 

“Probably stutter it out by accident,” Molly said to herself, then pushed the thought down and hastened to obey his order. 

*****

The following evening, Molly kicked and scraped the wet, clinging snow from her boots before trotting up the stairs at 221B. For most of the day she’d been wondering, between exploratory autopsies and pathological specimen reports for the visiting oncologist, what in the world could be in Sherlock’s “kit,” particularly since she was expected to pick it up before a mysterious outing? If it weren’t the dead of winter, almost the darkest day of the year, and if Sherlock were...not himself, her guesses would tend toward sporting gear; as it was, knowing his proclivities and probable intentions for Tuesday evening, her imagination was utterly failing her. All her brain would conjure up was lurid images of some sort of clothing that involved heavy, clanking chains. To wear in public? Molly’s mind boggled.

Her snowy boots having been rendered marginally more acceptable, Molly scrambled up the stairs, grinning, so eager to see the cool smile on his face, to fall into his arms---

But when she banged open the door to the warm sitting room and bounced in, Molly stopped short, because the man leaning against the desk was not the tall, dark blade she’d been expecting. It was Greg Lestrade, and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. 

Molly realised her mouth was opening and closing in confusion, and hastily shut it. “Greg! H-hi! ” she blurted, dropping her glove. Damn. Once again, it was her voice and her clumsiness that betrayed her self-consciousness, this time at being caught practically _scampering_ through Sherlock’s door.

And Greg’s eyebrows had certainly shot up. “Molly. Good to see you,” he said, wide-eyed but still nodding cordially. “Haven’t seen you since Thursday last. How are things?”

Molly gawped at Lestrade, and for one wild moment she found herself unable to think of anything other than Sherlock’s teasing accusations of Lestrade’s sinister fantasies about her. These thoughts were quickly crowded out by the memory of Sherlock’s much earlier suggestion of stripping and pleasuring her for Lestrade’s delectation. 

Her brain went blank, and an embarrassed giggle was all she could muster. Molly just hated it when she got tongue-tied. God, how must this look?

“Molly is doing very well. Aren’t you,” said the familiar deep voice as Sherlock appeared from the kitchen. He sauntered over to Molly, caught her chin in his hand, and bent to drop a gentle kiss on her mouth. 

It was nothing like his usual hard, burning kisses, but her body reacted anyway; she swayed toward him for a second. 

“Yeah...I can see she is,” said Lestrade from the desk, and it took Molly a moment to recall the line of conversation. Molly looked over at him; the expression on his face was...conflicted. Disgust, surely, and yes, some jealousy there too. Sherlock had been right, then, in some measure. Likely it was only the casual, private interest that a man could have for any woman, even a friend, but still. 

She looked over at Sherlock, and found him staring at Lestrade in a way that was certainly meaningful, maybe even challenging. As if he were daring him to say anything. 

Then Sherlock walked over and handed Lestrade a thumb drive. “You’ll find that all the relevant images are there. No need to mention that the Yard didn’t take these shots, right? Avoid any awkward questions from the courts,” he said, taking Molly’s small hand in his huge one.

“Right,” Lestrade agreed, still looking between Molly and Sherlock, who was standing tall and actually puffing out his chest a bit. It dawned on Molly that Sherlock looked...proud. Proud of her? 

“Well, I appreciate the help, Sherlock. Best be off, then. Have a good evening,” Lestrade said, closing up his coat. “Good to see you, Molls. Take care,” he said, trying and failing to smile, before shutting the door behind him. 

“Ha. Jealous,” Sherlock said smugly, pulling Molly against his body and cradling her head in his hand. “He didn’t even try to pretend to tease us or make innuendo, like friends do when their other friends become involved. You see, Molly? He’s insanely envious.”

“Or slightly horrified,” Molly said. 

Sherlock chuckled. “Either way, I’m enjoying it.”

He leaned down and gave her a proper kiss, a claiming kiss that left her mouth hot and stinging, something Molly would never have wanted Lestrade to witness. And Molly understood that while Sherlock did not intend to hide the bare fact of their relationship from their friends and colleagues, he would leave private the nature of their activities. Along with a certain relief, Molly felt a fierce curiosity about how he’d act toward her in a social situation with their mutual friends. Would that ever happen, though?

“Thinking again,” Sherlock rumbled into her hair. “Look at me.” 

Molly raised her eyes to his impossibly blue, strangely slanted ones. “Molly. Here you are,” Sherlock purred. “What shall I do to you, my Molly, now that you’ve so foolishly let yourself drop into my hands? Poor little Molly, all alone with the monster,” he said as his hand slipped under her coat, jumper, blouse, bra. He pinched her tender nipple, hard. Molly gritted her teeth and inhaled, but stayed silent, holding his gaze. She’d show him she could take it.

“Oh, trying to be brave, are we?” Sherlock drew back and watched her carefully for a moment. “Are you well, Molly?”

“I am,” she told him. “But I’m a little tired, and my feet hurt a bit from standing. Lots of autopsies today.”

“I can help with that,” Sherlock said, and he bent and swept her off her feet. Molly yelped and giggled, clinging to his neck.

“I was thinking of bending you over my sofa, and doing...something or other, but you’ve given me an even better idea,” Sherlock said, bearing her into the bedroom. “Now, let me think a moment,” he continued, swaying Molly in his arms like a baby and setting his cheek against the top of her head. “I have some preparations to make. Wait here,” he said, setting her gently on the bed.

“Yes, Sherlock, sir,” Molly said, playfully pretending to cower a little for his benefit. Sherlock smiled. He left for the sitting room, and she heard rumbles and thumps, and the sound of a cardboard box being torn open.

“Naked, Molly. I want you naked,” she heard him call from the living room. Molly jumped, then quickly started stripping off her winter layers, piling them in a corner of the bedroom and returning to huddle, shivering just a little, in the middle of the bed. She heard Sherlock’s footsteps returning, and just at the last second remembered to pull down her ponytail, flinging the elastic away.

Sherlock reappeared, bearing several coils of rope in his hands, and another small, curved object that Molly couldn’t identify.

“What do you think of this new rope, Molly? Special order. I cut these lengths just now, but I have more,” Sherlock said, holding up one coil in front of her eyes.

“Oh, Sherlock. It’s...lovely,” Molly said. The rope was the same type he’d used the other night, soft-looking with a creamy sheen, but it was a delicate shell pink. Molly couldn’t remember ever having seen rope that was actually pretty.

“I thought so. Matches the color of your little ears,” Sherlock said, and there was that lingering look of his. His eyes swept down her body from her face to her feet as Molly laughed. “My ears?” 

Sherlock didn’t smile or reply, but threw the rope and the other object down on the bed. “Undress me.” 

“Yes, sir.” Molly slid off the bed and reached for the button just below the base of his throat. Her hands were trembling a little as she fumbled the buttons open and his snowy skin was revealed. She went to push the shirt off his shoulders, but Sherlock said, “Cuffs, Molly. Everyone always forgets the cuffs.” He gave a heavy sigh and held up his wrists, and Molly struggled to contend with the stiffest buttons yet. 

Finally, she pushed the shirt off his shoulders. Ah, he was beautiful. Molly stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his throat, his clavicle, and trailed her mouth down to one dusky nipple. Sherlock hummed his pleasure. “Teeth, Molly. Use your teeth. Ah…”

Molly obediently bit and sucked both his nipples until they were surrounded by faint halos of red, then Sherlock gently pushed her down to kneel on the hard floor. After a second or two, Molly’s knees were wishing for her thick sheepskin, but she barely registered the pain in her excitement to open Sherlock’s trousers. 

“Shoes, Molly. You’re being naughty on purpose, aren’t you,” Sherlock scolded. “Well, never fear, you’ll get what’s coming to you.” Molly gasped and hurriedly unlaced his shoes to draw them off, taking off his dress socks for good measure, while Sherlock stood on one foot, then the other. 

“Trousers, Molly. Quickly, now. I’m eager to begin.”

He was. Molly tugged his trousers down to his ankles, at the same time kissing the warm lump that strained against his underwear.

Finally, Molly pulled his pants down, the ache in her knees utterly forgotten as that long, lovely cock came into view. Molly moaned and squirmed where she knelt, longing for him to push her down and sheath it inside her. 

“Patience, my little wanton,” Sherlock breathed. “I’ve been aching for your throat, so be a good little sybarite and just swallow my cock. Ah, Molly,” he panted as she enthusiastically obeyed, grasping a hard leg in one hand for balance. “Just where did you learn how to do this, you astonishing thing?” 

A flash of memory in a dark place, of obscene instructions given in a soft voice while she fought against her gag reflex. Of the ecstasy of teeth on her neck as a cock penetrated her like a spider’s sting. No, Molly would never answer Sherlock’s question. She pulled him in deeper, caressing the silken purse of his scrotum with her free hand. 

“God, Molly! Stop, stop,” Sherlock hissed, and Molly drew back and looked up at him.

“On the bed. Face up,” he snarled, red-faced, pinching the base of his cock in his hand and reaching out for the wall behind him. Sherlock looked genuinely agitated, clearly fighting back his orgasm.

Molly scrambled up onto the bed and turned on her back, kicking her legs a bit to uncramp her aching knees. “No, lie diagonally,” Sherlock told her, calmer now. “Legs together and extended, and reach your arms above your head. I’m going to tie you.” 

Molly’s feet and hands ended up a few inches shy of each corner of Sherlock’s bed. Sherlock stood over her, pulling one of the shell-pink ropes through his hands. Molly saw him quickly toss away a tiny splinter of wood that had caught on the rope before folding it in half and in half again, walking to her feet. 

Molly watched Sherlock’s beautiful hands wrapping the doubled rope around her ankle several times before turning under the loop he’d left. After pulling experimentally on the long rope that trailed over the edge of the bed, Sherlock used it to tied her other ankle, then bent to secure the entire assembly to the leg of the bed.

He rounded the footboard and approached Molly’s hands, running his fingers along her arms. Craning to look up at him, Molly saw his frown as he examined the delicate bones of her wrists. Sherlock turned and opened his closet for a moment, taking what looked like small cloth nappies from a high shelf. He wrapped a soft, thick cloth around each wrist before securing both her hands to the opposite leg of the bed. 

Sherlock stood back to admire his work. “Test your bonds, Molly. How do they feel? If all’s well, and nothing’s pinching any nerves, give me your safeword.” 

Molly bent her arms and legs a little, and pulled. Her wrists and ankles had not been tied together, and there was a little slack in the rope he’d left, but the bonds were firm enough that she could move only a few inches in any direction. “Skull,” Molly told him, her mind already tripping ahead to wonder what in the world he’d do next. 

It wasn’t long until she had her answer. Sherlock picked up one more length of rope and slid it under her knees, then tied her thighs firmly together. “Press tightly together, Molly,” Sherlock told her, using many loops until there were several inches of solid rope just above her knees. He tied it off with a beautiful knot. “Safeword?”

Molly tested the binding. She really couldn’t move her thighs much at all, and with her ankles and wrists tied, she could barely bend at the hips. But it all felt fine, though a little scary. “Skull,” she said.

Sherlock smiled wolfishly, and began running his fingers up and down her bound body. “How unspeakably lovely you are, Molly, tied hopelessly to my bed. No escape for you now,” he purred, twisting her nipples and wringing out a high, shaky moan. His fingers laced through the dark hair between her legs. “You’re so tightly trussed that I can barely slide my fingers between these lips,” he said as she tried to arch into his hand. “Good thing you’re sopping wet for me already. Let’s get this clit nicely slicked up, shall we?”

Wicked fingers, joined swiftly by a wicked mouth as he bent over her body to pry his tongue into the top of her tightly closed crease. A hand wandered to her breasts, her underarms, her belly, and slipped underneath to caress and squeeze her bottom. 

Molly was quivering with arousal, but the thought kept nagging her that he’d tied her in a way that would make it very awkward for him to use her mouth. Or her arse, for that matter, although she very much doubted he’d go that far yet; and her hands were tied, of course. What would he do to her? He was slowly pulling on his cock, and his eyes as he lifted off her were glinting in obvious anticipation of...something. 

Sherlock reached and caught up the other object from where it had lain on the bed. He held it up before her eyes, and Molly saw that it was a sort of vibrator, made in a flattened curve maybe a third of an inch thick. His thumb pressed the button, and it buzzed to life. 

“Now, Molly,” he said as he lowered the vibrator to her pussy. “Let’s give you a taste of this little delight.”

Molly wailed. The vibrations were strong and sweet, and the curve hugged her body where he slipped it between her tightly bound legs. He continued to press it against her lightly, moving it in little circles as she moaned and struggled and reached after the incredible sensation. 

He lifted it away, and Molly keened, bereft. Sherlock walked to her hands and touched them. “Ah, skin still nice and pink, I see. Any tingling or pinching? No?” He walked to her feet. “And all’s well down here? Good,” he said, pulling one corner of the duvet over her feet before returning to sit beside her on the bed. Molly started to weep in gratitude for the warmth on her chilly feet. If she’d been able to, she would have kissed Sherlock’s hands. 

He lowered the vibrator again, and all thought fled from her mind. What mattered now was to twist into the maddeningly light touch of the toy, to strain toward it as well as she could, and to beg him. 

“Please, please, Sherlock, harder, press it harder against me. Against my pussy. Please, Sherlock, more, more.” 

She looked beseechingly up at him, tears flowing out of her eyes. “I’ll do anything, Sherlock, just give me more.”

“Oh, I’ll give you more,” Sherlock growled, his eyes dark with lust. To Molly’s despair, he dropped the toy on the bed. Then he scooped both arms under her body and neatly turned her over onto her belly. Molly’s tears spilled across her face; she felt the ropes at her ankles and wrists tighten a little with the extra twist in the ropes. 

“Safeword, Molly? Back, neck?” His hands slipped under her breasts, giving her a swift caress as well as adjusting her breasts where they had been pulled to one side under her. 

“Skull,” Molly said. “Please, please, Sherlock, I need it.”

“I know,” he replied with a chuckle. “Do you know what else you need?” The bed shifted under her body as he leaned over her. 

With the first strike of his hand against her exposed bottom, Molly jerked and cried out. 

“A little discipline,” Sherlock said, his voice so deep that Molly felt a clench in her cunt. “A little pain to soften you, and remind you to whom you belong. Mine, Molly, all mine.” His hand fell two, three, four times. 

Molly cried out and wept hard into the bed, unable to twist away from his spanking on her arse. Sherlock laughed at her plight and gave out three more hard smacks. 

“No paddles, Molly. No whips, no riding crops. For you, the intimacy of my open hand. You’re so tender. You crave my power, not this pain. But you’ll take it, won’t you, because, my sweet Molly, I do so delight in giving this pain to you.” 

Four more smacks, harder than any she’d ever felt. Lights flashed behind her eyes, and her lungs burned with her thin cries. The shape of her safeword began to form in her brain, but suddenly, she felt the vibrator slipping underneath her. 

Sherlock fitted the curve of the toy against her pussy and drew his hand away. His other hand was resting on her burning bottom, the light touch soothing to the stinging skin. 

Molly shook and shivered, trying to push her pelvis into the bed, craving to crush her pussy against that delicious buzz. It still wasn’t quite enough pressure, and Molly fairly howled in despair. 

“Sherlock. Please. Please,” she pleaded shamelessly to her lover, her tormentor. “Press it against me, harder. I need to come. I’ll be good, Sherlock. Please, let me come.”

“Oh, you want to come? Well, Molly, so do I.” He squeezed her arse, making her yelp, and climbed off the bed. 

Molly heard the crack of a lubricant bottle cap. She froze, her heart pounding against the bed. Surely, he wouldn’t...

She turned her head and saw him; he was pouring lubricant onto his cock, slicking it up well with practiced strokes. Panic gripped her as he climbed onto the bed and mounted her body. No, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, she would stop everything, she would safeword out. He hadn’t even touched the tight little hole in her bottom. 

His knees were on either side of her, and he hovered over her bound form. “Remember, Molly. I will do nothing to truly harm you. You are safe with me. Always. Do you trust me, Molly? If you do, give me your safeword.”

Molly grew still, the vibrator buzzing feebly against her, and time extended for ten heartbeats. Molly knew the answer.

“Skull...Sherlock, I trust you.” He had never once violated his promise, never come close, always taken care of her while she was under his power. Molly didn’t understand, but she believed, she knew all would be well.

“Thank you, Molly. Thank you for this gift,” Sherlock whispered into her hair. “You are one in seven billion, Molly Hooper.”

And Molly felt him settle onto her back, felt the slippery girth of his slick cock slide between her tightly pressed thighs. His weight pressed her down and her ropes grew tight, so tight, and finally, finally, the crease of her aching pussy pressed firmly against the buzzing toy. 

Molly moaned, her voice grown ragged and faint. Sherlock was thrusting between her thighs, into the tight place he’d made for himself just above the ropes that bound her legs together. He groaned out his relief as he gave in to his male drive to rut, to fuck into her warm body, even if he chose to deny himself the solace of her pussy for the moment. 

And with each thrust of his weight on her, he drove the toy hard against her cunt. It pushed in farther between her legs, sending the vibrations sweetly into her deeper places. 

Molly gave herself up, floated free in a dark, warm world that went no farther than this room, this bed. She could do nothing in her bonds, but she need do nothing, because pleasure was washing over her, unstoppable. Sherlock was panting above her, his hand touching her back, her face, as he drove his cock into slippery flesh.

“Beautiful Molly,” he gasped as he rutted, forcing her closer and closer to orgasm with every push against the toy. “My Molly.” He shifted, his thrusts grew faster between her thighs, and Molly heard herself sobbing helplessly. 

He wound her hair around his fist, pulled her head back. “Come for me, sweet girl, brave girl. Let me hear you scream.” 

Molly screamed. Ecstasy crashed over her, into her, racking her tormented body, slickness and heat and white light spiking through her brain. She heard Sherlock roar above her, felt his final, desperate spasms, and the hot spurt of his orgasm pouring out to wet the fronts of her thighs. His hand plunged underneath her, lifting her, pulling the toy away before its buzz could start to pain her.

They lay together for long moments, Molly taking deep, hitching breaths and Sherlock panting with exertion. Sweat trickled between their bodies, cooling swiftly in the evening air. Molly felt Sherlock kissing her neck, her back, her shoulder. Slowly, reluctantly, Sherlock lifted himself off her. 

Shaking fingers at her wrists; the loop slipped free, and Molly drew one aching arm, then the other, down to fold them against her chest. She started to curl her body up, and felt Sherlock’s hand gently guiding her away from the small puddle of his semen. The ropes around her thighs released, were drawn down her body. She felt a soft cloth wiping his fluids away from her thighs, taking care that none would seep up toward her pussy or mix with her own fluids that were soaking her up between her legs.

Then her ankles were free, and Molly rolled onto her back, Sherlock’s warm body sliding up alongside her, their skin sticking together a little as their sweat dried. He gathered her into himself, and Molly lay there in his arms, breathing softly and steadily; all was soft, all was warm and safe. Something was glowing softly, something was sounding deeply, steadily under her ear. She closed her eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with Brit-picking by wonderful aberlioness!

“Oh, Sherlock. It’s…it’s beautiful. Is it..for me?”

“Of course it’s for you,” Sherlock said, tossing away the protective plastic cover and bringing the dress on its hanger across the sitting room to Molly. “Who else could it be possibly be for? Feel it.”

Hesitantly, Molly touched the front of the black dress, then caught up the long length of it in both hands. The fabric was light and airy, with a lovely liquid flow, and the semi-transparent layers slid over each other to create a misty, floating effect. “Oh my goodness, is this real silk?” 

“Silk chiffon. French seams, and hand-hemmed to your height,” Sherlock said. “I’m told it’s vintage, whatever that means. I was presented with several choices, and this one seemed to suit you best. Drink that water,” he snapped, frowning at her. “Empty the glass. You didn’t drink anything before you went to sleep, after drenching my ropes with sweat.”

“Someone else may have been sweating on the rope as well,” Molly said, though she obediently picked up the glass from the desk and took long swallows. 

“Your fault,” Sherlock said sternly, and Molly couldn’t really disagree. “Now,” Sherlock said, taking three long strides to cross the room, “shoes and underwear.” He tossed a couple of boxes on the desk beside Molly.

Inside the first box were black flats. “Not heels, with that dress?” Molly asked, her fingers lingering over the butter-soft leather. 

“I like that you’re tiny next to me,” Sherlock said, stepping right up against her so that she would have stumbled backward had he not pressed her against his body. “I rather enjoy physically overwhelming you. As you may have noticed recently.” His cock was hardening against her belly.

“I had noticed, actually,” Molly said, her face flushing. She pressed him gently away; she was hungry for dinner, and if she left things to Sherlock, they’d never eat. Or leave the flat. Or his bed. Sherlock’s hunger for her body seemed to be subsuming all other considerations.

Turning in his hands, Molly reached resolutely for the other box. Opening it, she drew a breath. Nestled in the satiny box were a few exquisitely skimpy scraps of night-black lace and satin that Molly supposed could be called a bra and pants, if one were generous. The pants looked as though they would cover only the top of her bum, leaving the bottom curve of her buttocks exposed, and the bra…

Molly held it up. “Sherlock, my breasts may be small, but not this small. This won’t fit,” she said, looking at the tiny cups with a little regret for the beauty of the rich lace.

“Oh, it will fit. My personal shopper guarantees it. That’s a quarter-cup bra,” Sherlock smirked. “I just love them. Useful on a submissive woman, keeps her in the right frame of mind.” He took the bra and held it against the blue silk of her---his---dressing gown. “See?” 

It would not cover her breasts, even with sheer material. It would cradle and display them, leaving her pink nipples exposed. “Oh. I see,” Molly said, her heart fluttering a little.

“Worn under clothing, it keeps the nipples stimulated and easier for the dominant to access,” Sherlock said, tossing the bra back in its box. 

“Sherlock. All this is lovely, but what’s all it for? Where are we going tomorrow night?”

“I thought we’d look in on a little soiree so you can meet some others who are as filthy-minded as ourselves,” Sherlock said. “Nothing so vulgar as a BDSM club, nothing open to the public. A private gathering, by invitation only.” He held up two blood-red, gilt-edged cards, and Molly saw that the writing on them had been done by hand. “Given by friends of mine. What do you think, Molly?”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Molly said, feeling a wave of shyness crash over her. She sat bonelessly on the sofa. “That sounds...scary. What if I see someone I know?” If that happened, Molly thought, she might die of mortification.

“You won’t,” Sherlock said dismissively, coming to sit beside her. “Believe me. And you will go as my little submissive, under my protection, always right at my side. And you don’t have to do anything at all. You don’t even have to speak to anyone if you don’t want to. But you can look, and learn.”

“What...what would I learn?” Molly asked, feeling a little spark of interest under the timidity.

“You could learn more about what you like,” Sherlock said. “What you might want to try, to feel. New ways to please me, serve me.” His fingers ghosted over her breast, her neck, her lips, and Molly turned her head and kissed his fleeting fingertips. “Though you are magnificent, Molly, just as you are at this moment.” He leaned in, seeking to claim her mouth. 

Molly stopped him with a hand on his chest. She could feel his heart pounding under her fingers, but remained resolute. “Can we please eat some dinner? It’s past time, Sherlock.” 

“Oh Molly, peckish again? All right, let’s order in. But first, your answer. Will you please do me the honor tomorrow night?” Sherlock said, covering her hand on his chest with his own huge one. 

Charmed in spite of herself at his gallant manner, Molly smiled. Why not? “All right, then,” she agreed. “If you promise not to let me out of your sight.” 

“Oh Molly, I’ll never let you go beyond your leash. Not that you’ll actually be wearing one. Well, not this time.” He grinned toothily at her, and Molly gulped. 

“So, then. Chinese? Thai? Ethiopian?” Sherlock bounded into the kitchen, brimming with energy. He snatched the pile of takeaway menus from the refrigerator and waved them at her with a flourish.

“Oh, Chinese would be lovely,” Molly said. “Noodles...and lemon chicken. Oh, and you have to let me pay, Sherlock. You’ve been spending rather a lot on me.” Not that paying for one meal could compare to a vintage silk dress, delicate and surely extortionate lingerie, a large sheepskin, shell-pink rope, all their toys, however much the party tickets had cost…

“What else would I spend it on? Spare me the symbolic gesture; it’s so obvious you don’t come from money. Besides, this Chinese has my card on file.” He flipped open his laptop and clicked a few times. “There. Twelve minutes.”

Stung by the jibe at her working-class origins, Molly harrumphed at him. He gave her a cool smile.

“Unless you have strong objections, I’d prefer to continue as we are. I do enjoy taking care of everything, Molly. Makes it easier to be infuriatingly high-handed, keeps you on your toes. Speaking of which, you ought to try on the shoes and dress, just to be sure.”

“Okay,” Molly squeaked, no retort occurring to her. “I’ll just...go in the bedroom, then.” 

In tribute to Sherlock’s personal shopper (and to his observations of her measurements, surely), the dress and shoes fit beautifully, though as she looked in the mirror, Molly rather felt like some sort of gothic fairy princess. Or a little girl dressed up as one, she thought. All she needed was a wand and a pair of braids. 

“I should mention, Molly,” Sherlock said from the doorway, where he was leaning and texting at lightning speed, “you have an appointment at a nearby salon at seven-thirty tomorrow evening. An old friend of mine runs the place. You could do with a bit of styling.”

“Sherlock, you really are high-handed, do you know?” Molly told him, caught between girlish anticipation of dressing up and frustration at his rather lordly handling of the entire matter. “And rather tactless, just then.” 

He looked up from his phone, his face puzzled. “What? I thought you’d like it, don’t you like it?” He stopped, looking at her as she stood there in her dress. “You look beautiful in that, Molly. Clearly I chose well.”

She sighed. “Oh, Sherlock.” 

Just then, the doorbell rang, and Sherlock exclaimed, “Dinner’s here,” turned on his heel, and bounded off, for all the world as if he were the one who had insisted on the necessity of eating. 

Dinner was pleasant, eaten on the sofa; Molly put away a good amount while Sherlock teased her about her bland taste in Chinese and her lack of skill with the wooden chopsticks, doing little tricks with his own pair and playing around more than actually eating. He seemed very happy, like a gleeful little boy who was having a birthday, and Molly smiled at his antics over the white takeaway box. 

When she had finished, Sherlock took her by the hand and led her back to the bedroom, where he laid her down, opened her legs, and feasted on her slowly until, after an hour of sweet torment, Molly called his name, her hands soft on his curly head. 

****

It was not Molly’s best day at work; she couldn’t stop thinking about the evening ahead of her, wondering in a thousand ways what it might be like. Frustrated with herself after realising she’d been staring into space over Mr Fletcher’s autopsy report, Molly clenched her teeth. “Pull yourself together, Molls.” Her patients deserved better than this.

Worse yet, Sherlock chose that day to visit the morgue with Lestrade and Donovan in tow. She’d only just managed to focus on the daunting stack of paperwork in front of her when the door banged open, and there was the author of all her doubts and ponderings, looking heart-stoppingly dashing in his Belstaff and demanding to see Mr Fletcher’s body immediately. 

She hastened to obey as she always did, handing Sherlock the partially completed autopsy report so as to provide precise data about the likely cause of death. She pulled Mr Fletcher out of his compartment, but after a moment Sherlock seemed more interested in the report, casually lounging against the table where Mr Fletcher lay to read it. He soon looked up and began his rapid-fire deductions.

“So. Mr Fletcher is pushed from his rooftop and is discovered unconscious an hour or so later. He is taken to hospital with fractures of his left humerus, radius, ulna and pelvis as well as the severe skull injury that resulted in his coma,” Sherlock rattled, studying Molly’s photographs of the brain she’d removed, examined, and replaced. “The murderer expected him to die in hospital after a suitable delay, but after five days it seems death is not occurring on schedule, and the murderer resorts to asphyxiation by pillow, as shown by the petechiae on the brain. Conclusion, the wife. And one other...” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin.

“The wife?” Sally Donovan cut in. She’d been a little subdued around Sherlock since he’d returned from death, but was ever the diligent sergeant. “She’s in a wheelchair, spine injury. How could she have pushed him off the roof?”

“A cluster of scrapes on the eastern side of the roofline indicated the habitual placement of his ladder for the yearly maintenance, but on that day, his ladder was placed on the west side; why? Because the wife had planted a bed of flowers underneath the usual location this season, thus forcing Mr Fletcher to move his ladder to the pavement. Far less visible from the street, and wheelchair accessible. As Mr Fletcher is climbing down, the wife jerks the ladder out from under her husband; he falls. She hits him on the head for good measure, waits about an hour and then calls an ambulance, secure in the knowledge that if the skull fracture doesn’t kill him, his extensive fractures are very likely to produce a fatal fat embolism after several days. Delayed-action murder,” he said, tapping the sheaf of paper.

“Fat what?” Lestrade interjected. Molly piped up to explain.

“The long bones have oily marrow in them, and if they’re fractured, fat gets spilled into the blood and travels to places like the lungs and the brain. Gums up the works,” Molly told them. “Takes a few days to kill you, if it does at all. But the more broken bones, and the longer you wait to reduce---er, set them, the more spillage and higher risk of death. The wife must be a physician,” Molly concluded, looking up at Sherlock; he was now studying the vial of tiny cotton fibers Molly had removed from the mouth and throat. 

“Art teacher with a year of medical school,” Sherlock corrected, not looking up from the vial. “Molly, you found widespread fat emboli in the organs, did you not?”

“Yes, that would be expected. But that wasn’t the cause of death. He was asphyxiated.”

“Wait. How did the wife reach the bed to hold the pillow over his face?” Sergeant Donovan asked. “It was a standard hospital bed in a semi-private ward. No time to hoist herself up; someone might walk in on her.”

“She had help, Sally. Remember that foul yellow jumper the daughter was wearing? There’s a strand of yellow wool in this vial, from inside the mouth. The daughter contacted me to investigate a suspicious accident before her father actually died; she thought to use the fact that she’d called me in to deflect attention from herself and use my conclusions about her mother’s medical knowledge to shift the blame. But she didn’t plan on her father failing to die as her mother had assured her he would, and perhaps he was regaining consciousness, so she decided to improvise. Nice family,” Sherlock said. “It seems you have a couple of arrests to make, Garrett. Off you go, then.” 

“Greg,” the detective inspector replied automatically, running a hand through his hair and making for the door. “Come on, Sally. Thanks a mill, Sherlock. Call you later to verify the final report, yeah?” 

But Sherlock had already pulled Molly close to him for an almighty snog, right next to Mr Fletcher’s chilled body. 

Molly heard Sally’s gasp and noise of disgust, heard Lestrade mutter something under his breath, and their footsteps sounded on the polished floor. When Sherlock released her, Molly looked over to see Sally stealing a glance at them over her shoulder as she walked out the door; she looked frankly horrified.

“Well, now the whole Yard will know. Tasty bit of gossip, I suppose.” Molly shrugged. 

“Probably. Nice work, as usual, Molly,” he said. “You scraped out the mouth; do you always scrape out the mouth?” 

“Only when I see petechiae on the brain and foam in the airways,” Molly said. “Plus, you know, a pillow has gone missing from the ward. I called the nurse assistant.”

“Oh, excellent. God, Molly, I want to take you right on this table,” he growled. Molly saw the darkness gathering in his eyes and took a step back. 

“But Mr Fletcher!” Molly cried. “And it’s the middle of my shift, Sherlock. Out of my morgue, I’m busy. I’ll see you tonight, all right? Go on!”

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But for this defiance, you’ll be soundly---”

“Hush, Sherlock,” Molly told him, nodding at the morgue technician who had just walked in, looking curious at Sherlock’s odd choice of words. “Later.”

Sherlock gave one huff of breath, and then swept out, just as always. And Molly settled in to complete the paperwork and try to avoid thinking of him, just as always. 

****

That evening, Molly’s cab pulled up beside the address Sherlock had given her, and she jumped out, lugging a garment bag. She hadn’t known whether or not she was supposed to show up at the salon already dressed, so she’d decided to give herself options. 

The wide windows were brightly lit up, but the door was locked when Molly tried it. Hesitantly, she tapped on the glass and peered into the seemingly deserted salon.

A door at the back opened, and a plump young woman bustled out, aproned in black, and unlocked the front door. “You’re Molly, right?” she said with a grin. “Come right in, love. I’m Bridget. Just step to the back, I’ll get the curtains.” 

Bridget locked the door behind Molly and pulled long curtains across the glass windows and door, blocking the view from the street. She tossed her sleek black waves over one tattooed shoulder, then put her hands on her ample hips and regarded Molly. 

“Well, aren’t you a pretty one,” she said. “And lucky, too. Sherlock’s so adorable, isn’t he? He said you both were going to Indra’s party tonight, how exciting!” Bridget took her garment bag and hung it on a coat rack, then guided Molly to a little grouping of soft chairs, where a tea tray was waiting on a low table. “Kettle’s just boiled.” 

A bit dazed, Molly sat on a loveseat while Bridget poured them tea. “Milk and sugar? Me too,” Bridget said, and handed Molly a cup and saucer before pouring some tea for herself.

“I’ve never been served tea at a salon before,” Molly said, taking a sip and looking around at the rich wood, high ceilings, and shiny chrome fittings of the elegant room.

“We offer all our clients a beverage. But not everyone gets biscuits,” Bridget winked one black-lined eye, offering her a plateful. “Sherlock does, of course. I’ve been cutting his hair for years now. He even had me come to his brother’s private club to lop off that ragged mop after his long trip. What a nightmare, but it came out beautiful, of course.” Bridget lifted her little chin proudly. 

“Ragged mop?” Molly asked, munching on her biscuit.

“Ooh, you didn’t see it, did you. Not surprised, it was a crime. Came down to his shoulders, all straggly.” Bridget waggled her fingers against her own shining waves and wrinkled her nose. “Kind of disgusting. He must not have pulled at all for those two years.”

“Mmm,” Molly smiled noncommittally over her cup. Sherlock had told Molly about the last person he’d had sex with, a handsome young Serbian guard with a liking for punk music, who had ended up betraying Sherlock to his master, the baron. “Landed me in a bit of hot water,” Sherlock had said. “But he was delicious. Almost worth the beating, after.” Molly had no idea how much Bridget knew about Sherlock’s adventures; best to keep quiet. 

“But we’re all so proud of him for taking down that Moriarty’s network,” Bridget went on. “He’s so dashing---jumping off that building! And my god, can he wield a paddle.” The stylist’s black eyes were knowing.

“Oh,” Molly said weakly. “You know about all that, do you?” 

“‘Course I do. I cut his hair. He tells me everything. And he and I used to play together sometimes at the private club nights. He’s got a strong arm for those of us who can’t get enough of the paddle and crop.” Bridget smiled. “Never said much at those times, though. He only opens up while he’s in my chair.”

Molly absorbed this, looking at Bridget’s open face, her easy smiles. She thought about Sherlock, who talked to her constantly while he was dominating her, far more than he spanked her bottom. It seemed her lover had a wide range of adaptable skills.

“Well, Molly, what would you like to do tonight? You’ve landed yourself an invite to Indra’s, so it’s time to pull out all the stops, or so I hear. I’ve never been, I’m so jealous!” Bridget bounced up and went to one of the stations. “Have a seat, Molly. Let’s look at your hair.”

“Who is Indra?” Molly asked, setting her cup on the shelf and sitting in the chair. Bridget’s fingers raked gently through her hair, feeling the weight and texture. 

“Oh, you have gorgeous hair, Molly. So thick. Pretty chestnut color. You’ve never dyed it, either, and not a bit of grey. Indra is one of the top dominants in London. I wouldn’t say he’s famous, because he doesn’t move in public circles, at least not in that capacity. But his parties are legendary. What would you like to do with this tonight? High updo? Long curls?”

“Sherlock didn’t tell you what he wanted?” Molly said, and blushed. 

“Oh. Submissive,” Bridget grinned. “I’m more of a masochist myself, like I said. Don’t much like being ordered about, can’t stand humiliation, but like a good hard paddling. How about waves swept up into a loose chignon? Always elegant, and it’d look lovely on you.”

“All right,” Molly agreed. “You know a lot more about this than I do.” 

“About styling, or the scene?” Bridget asked. “Let’s give you a shampoo,” she said, and went to the basin to draw warm water. 

“Both, I suppose,” Molly answered, sitting back in the shampoo chair. “What’s humiliation? I mean, what does that mean in...the scene, exactly?”

“Well, it’s a very broad range,” Bridget said. Her hands worked the suds against Molly’s scalp. “Does he put you down, call you names? Does he put his feet up on you while he’s sitting, make you eat from a bowl on the floor?”

“God, no!” Molly exclaimed, horrified. “I...I wouldn’t like that at all.” The idea made her feel sick. “No, he calls me his sweet little Molly, has me kneel beside his chair for tea, ties me up and tells me I’m beautiful, and makes me...do what he says,” she said, blushing hard.

Molly didn’t quite understand why she was telling a near-stranger all this, but it was rather a relief to have found a person to talk to about it all, someone who seemed so comfortable with these activities and spoke knowledgeably. Not even Beth understood why Molly _liked_ what she and Sherlock got up to. 

“Ooh, the little kidnapped princess,” Bridget chuckled behind her, drenching Molly’s hair. “I can see Sherlock being good at that. He’d make a wonderful evil prince.” 

Molly smiled shyly under Bridget’s towel. 

“And he’s known for his Japanese rope bondage. Takes a lot of expertise to do it right. Sherlock is quite a boffin about these things, or so I gather.” 

“How does the press not get wind of any of this?” Molly asked after a moment, blotting her face with a towel. “They’d eat it up. Scandal of the year.”

“You knew about him, though, didn’t you,” Bridget smiled at her in the mirror as she combed out Molly’s wet hair. “On some level. You didn’t seek out the scene on your own. You met Sherlock and responded to him, and he plucked you.” 

“Yes, I suppose he did.” Molly thought back to their conversation in his sitting room, that first teatime.

“And to answer your question...People in the scene stick together, and generally they agree to keep things private. If someone tried to sell information...especially in the high levels, where you’ll be visiting...there’d be hell to pay. I shudder to think. And they’d all turn on the traitor at once. No, Sherlock’s reputation is safe with them, such as it is. Besides, people use false names. ‘Indra’ is not his real name. And Sherlock goes by ‘Sigerson.’”

Bridget turned on the blow dryer, and they were quiet for a time under the roar of the hot air. Molly pondered all that Bridget had said.

“What goes on at these parties, Bridget?” Molly asked as Bridget worked a sweet-scented product through Molly’s hair.  
“Well, at the ones I’ve been to, people start by just standing around and chatting, and eventually they start playing. Hopefully there’s some dungeon furniture around, wooden frames and cages and things that people can get attached to. People can watch, if they want. No touching without permission, though, ever. That’s the rule.”

“The rule?” Molly asked. 

“Oh, yes,” Bridget said, setting to work with a large curling iron. “First, consent for everything ahead of time, that’s the huge one. Also, nobody plays without a safeword. No drinking or drugs. Oh, and no mobiles, and absolutely no cameras. But don’t worry, Sherlock will take good care of you.” 

“I see,” Molly said.

“Oh, I should tell you that most clubs have a rule against actual sex, but at these more exclusive parties, who knows. And the rumour is that Indra has private rooms.” Bridget released a curl. “I have no idea where all these parties happen. They’re a posh set, though, so it’ll be fancy.”

Molly sat in silence for a while as Bridget created long curls, humming as she worked. Molly was both relieved and a little frightened by what Bridget had told her. Yes, there were good, sensible-sounding rules, but it was a private party, attended by advanced practitioners from the upper classes. She wondered what they would think of her, little mousy Molly from the row house, especially if she went and put her foot in her mouth again. She longed for Sherlock to be proud of her….

Bridget ruffled and spritzed Molly’s curls, then gathered, rolled, pinned, and spritzed again. “Now then, Molly, there’s your hair done,” Bridget said, handing Molly a mirror and turning her chair so that she could see the back of her head. “Do you like it?”

“I...it looks lovely,” Molly said, gently touching the delicate twist that started at her nape and caught up her new curls into a heavy swirl at the back of her head. “Thank you, Bridget.” 

“My pleasure. Now, how about a little makeup? You won’t need much,” Bridget told her. “You have gorgeous skin. Let’s play that up, and your eyes. Would you be okay to take your blouse off?” 

“My blouse?” asked Molly, confused. 

“And your bra, if you’re not too shy. I just want to dust your skin with glow powder. Should go well with that,” Bridget said, nodding at the black dress hanging in its clear plastic cover. “Only if you’re okay with it, Molly.”

“Well, all right,” Molly said, standing up, and unbuttoning and unclasping until she was naked to the waist. She trusted Bridget, with her frank, friendly manner. And lord knew she was used to undressing for Beth. 

Bridget picked up a black canister and a large white puff. While Molly closed her eyes, Bridget dusted a fine powder on her face, neck, shoulders, and chest, asking her further permission before dusting her breasts. When Molly moved under the light, she saw herself shimmer with vanishingly fine sparkles, far more subtle than any glitter, in a warm pink-gold that went well with her skin.

“Nipple rouge?” Bridget held up a tiny pot. 

“Maybe...not tonight,” Molly said, blinking and smiling.

“All right, then,” Bridget grinned, putting the pot away. “We’ll keep it simple. Smoky eyes, just a little lipstick.”

Bridget sat Molly down again and brushed and painted. “There now, Molly. That’s you done, love. Take a look.”

Molly turned and caught sight of herself in the lighted mirror. 

“I look...glamourous,” she said, turning her head. Bridget had subtly darkened her brows, giving her grey-smoked brown eyes a knowing look. The sheen of the powder was drawing shadows under her cheekbones. She looked...not exactly sophisticated, but rather as though she...had delicious secrets. And now she did, Molly thought, pleased. “Thank you, Bridget.”

The plump stylist swept a little bow, then pulled out her mobile. “I’ll just text Sherlock then, tell him ten minutes. Let’s get you dressed. Ooh, I love this part. Let’s dim the lights a bit!”

In the now softly lit room, Bridget ooh’d and aah’d over her luxurious lingerie, and Molly blushed to see her breasts and nipples on display in the scandalously cut bra. Bridget discovered a suspender belt and black silk stockings deeper in the box, and helped Molly put them on. 

“The garters are attached to the front and the side of the stocking, not the front and back,” she intoned, bending to correcting Molly’s placement. _”Much_ more comfortable this way.” 

Finally, they slipped on the silk dress, and Molly stepped into the soft, low shoes. As she turned to look at herself in the tall mirror at the front of the shop, she heard a knock at the door, and her heart leapt.

Bridget drew aside the curtain and unlocked the door, and Sherlock stepped inside. He saw Molly, and stopped. The freezing winter wind blew through the salon as he stood in the door, unmoving. 

“Sherlock?” Bridget finally said, shivering and rubbing her round arms. “Come on in, now.” She tugged him in by the sleeve of his Belstaff and closed the door. Sherlock let himself be pulled, never taking his eyes off Molly. 

After a few more moments of silence, Bridget looked over at Molly. “Four-oh-four. Love, I think you broke him.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beauties, thank you all so much for the truly overwhelming response, and for reading and commenting; you give me life. Please enjoy...

The Jaguar roared its way along the dark, curving road, threading through the tunnel of trees and scattering winter’s dead leaves in its slipstream. Sherlock leaned on the accelerator as he pulled out of a turn, shifting the gears and urging the car to greater speed. His pale face reflected the blue glow of the dashboard; his expressionless eyes never left the road.

Molly huddled in the seat at his side and pressed white fingers to the cold window glass, the night flashing by, the world lost behind them moment by moment as the xenon glow of the headlights fell away. 

Sherlock hadn’t yet spoken a single word to her. Back at the salon, he’d handed an envelope to Bridget and squeezed her hand in thanks; then he’d drawn Molly toward him and dropped another of his Belstaff coats around her, buttoning it up roughly. He’d pulled her outside where the ice-grey Jaguar had crouched, warm and already purring, at the kerb.

He’d handed her in; sitting down, she had caught her breath at how low her seat was, set close to the frozen road. Swimming in his enormous coat, she’d wrapped herself in the rich Sherlock-scented wool and wondered at his extravagance in hiring a car. As they had thundered down the motorway and left London behind, Molly saw the impossibility of taking a cab to their destination, the more so as Sherlock was taking them farther and farther away from anything familiar, plunging them deep into the countryside and far down this unlit road.

Molly wanted to speak, to ask him where they were going, or how much farther it would be, or what would happen when they arrived, but the long silence was heavy between them and talk seemed impossible. Sherlock just drove, navigating the route without recourse to any map, pushing the car’s engine harder and harder as the road ahead of them became more and more deserted. The speed should have been terrifying, but Sherlock’s control never wavered, and the deep growl of the engine was soothing; Molly almost felt she could drift away into sleep and wake up in a different world. 

Sherlock was decelerating and shifting the engine down; Molly sat up a little farther in her seat and saw a single lamp aglow ahead of them. When they reached the light, which was set into a low stone wall, Sherlock turned the car into a smaller lane, where gravel crunched under the tyres. 

As they drove slowly between the low wall and a line of leafless poplars, the outline of a manor house came into view against the dark sky. All the windows were ablaze with light, and Molly could make out the starry glow of chandeliers and flickers of movement beneath as Sherlock turned the Jaguar into a wide paved area and shut off the engine. 

Molly looked over at Sherlock to find him already staring at her, unsmiling. He reached out and caught her chin; she felt his hand tremble as he closed in for a kiss that was so gentle, so intense, so full of barely leashed passion that it left Molly gasping. Then his door was open and he was circling the car and at her door before Molly could even undo her seat belt. 

He handed her out, then drew her close, slipping his arms inside the coat that matched his own. His hands went to her hips, fingers finding her garters under the whisper-thin silk. “Molly,” he said. “Thank you for coming tonight. In there, you don’t have to do or say anything. Like I said before; you can just look. But Molly, would you allow me to display you? Just for a moment. Fully clothed. I just...want everyone to see. How stunning you are. That you are mine.”

Molly’s heart was pounding with fear and anticipation; she couldn’t imagine what truly waited at the top of the broad staircase at the front of the manor house, or what she’d see tonight, but she longed to please him, to make him proud of her. “Yes, Sherlock,” she replied. 

He smiled once. “Good little Molly.” Then he took her left hand in his right and drew her around to his right side, leading her past all the other parked cars and toward the steps. Molly couldn’t look away from the glowing door at the top of the stair; someone had just walked out of the light and seemed to be waiting for them there. Molly heard industrial music drifting out into the night air.

“I’d like you to walk at my right side, Molly, just like this,” he whispered as they climbed the stone steps. “That’s all you need do. Surely you can remember?”

“Oh yes,” Molly said. “Just like in ballroom dance. Only thing I was good at in uni, apart from science and that.” 

“You know how to dance?” Sherlock asked, something indefinable in his tone, but Molly’s reply was cut off by the figure waiting at the door. 

“Sherlock,” the man called. “It’s been too long.”

“Indra,” Sherlock replied, clasping the man’s hand. 

Indra was a tall man with a patrician mane of gray hair; his white teeth were bright in his brown face. He turned dark-rimmed eyes on Molly, a smile playing about his lips, and she felt her body respond to the force of his masculine presence. 

Indra said nothing to her, however, turning back to Sherlock. “Are you kissable?” he asked with a sardonic quirk of his mouth. 

“I’m afraid not,” Sherlock replied, his tongue touching his lips swiftly. “I gave her exclusivity. You’ll understand.”

“No,” Molly piped up, surprised at herself. “Sherlock...if you’d like to kiss him...please go ahead. I don’t mind, truly.”

Sherlock turned to look at her for a moment, his face in shadow against the bright windows. Then he said, “Molly, you look exactly as though you mean that. Are you sure?” 

“I’m sure,” she told him, a heat rising in her body. Indra was watching their exchange, his handsome face neutral.

“Then, Indra, show me how much you’ve missed me,” Sherlock said, putting his free hand on their host’s shoulder and drawing him in. 

Indra sighed, and his lips met Sherlock’s in a gust of breath. Their kiss deepened as Molly watched, her pulse jumping at the sight of the two beautiful men embracing, the pale skin against dark, the black hair and the white, as electronic music floated around them like a mist. Sherlock broke the kiss first, and the two men shared a smile and stepped apart. Sherlock had never let go of Molly’s hand. 

Indra turned to Molly. “Sherlock. This uncommonly gracious beauty of yours needs a name.”

“She does,” Sherlock replied. “Something in a goddess of death would be appropriate.” Pleased at his veiled reference to her work, Molly beamed at Sherlock; he smiled coolly back.

“Ah,” Indra said, his eyes on Molly’s face. “Let me see. We already have a Kali, and Nephthys doesn’t seem quite the thing either. Ah, I know,” Indra said, looking knowingly between Molly and Sherlock. “Proserpina.” His smile was full of teeth.

Sherlock gave a deep chuckle. “It does seem to fit. What do you say, my little one? Proserpina, for an evening?”

“Proserpina,” Molly repeated. “Yes. Tonight, I’ll be Proserpina.” 

“Honored to meet you, Proserpina,” Indra told her. “Welcome to my home. If you need anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask; like any good Dominant, I’m in truth a slave to the submissive. Sherlock, let’s talk later.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, and they stepped away from Indra and through the door into a high, baroque hall, where a young woman in a blazer greeted them and helped Molly out of the enormous coat. 

When Sherlock took off his Belstaff, Molly saw that Sherlock had dressed much as he always did. Tonight he was in black from head to toe, and he looked breathtaking, Molly thought, with his sensual mouth still flushed from Indra’s kiss. 

“He called you Sherlock,” Molly said as the young woman left for a moment to hang up the identical coats. “Bridget said you had a name too, that you went by Sigerson.”

“Not much anymore, since Reichenbach,” Sherlock replied in a low voice, touching her lips, her throat in these last few moments alone. “Everyone knows who I am now, and only some of the old guard still use Sigerson. I don’t particularly mind either way.” 

“Oh,” Molly said. 

“Mobile phones, please.” The girl was back, holding out two small boxes. Sherlock placed his mobile in one of the boxes and received a slip of paper in return, while Molly cast about herself. “Sherlock. I left my mobile at Bridget’s.” Along with all her day clothes, she belatedly realised, surprised she hadn’t noticed before.

“You can trust all the staff at Bridget Choi Designs. And I’ll go by tomorrow to pick up your things.”

“It’s just...I’m not used to being without my phone.” It was a little scary not to have it, Molly thought, nervously smoothing the front of her dress and patting her hair. 

“No signal out here anyway,” Sherlock told her, taking her hand again. “Molly, stop doing that. You are stunning. Are you ready to go in? If the moment seems right, I’ll display you briefly in a few minutes. I’ll just hold up your arms and turn you around.”

Molly held her chin up. Here we go, she thought. “Yes, Sherlock.” And together, they passed down the hall, following the music through a door into a wide, softly lit room. 

The first thing Molly noticed, even before the people in the room, were the crystal chandeliers. There was no electric light in the room apart from a few uplights in the corners that cast a red glow over the decorative columns; the lights that shimmered in the glittering glass were all candles. 

The creamy candlelight played over the faces of the several dozen men and women already chatting and laughing in little clumps around high bar tables or lounging on the chairs and sofas that were grouped about the gilded room. From the walls and ceiling, gentle faces smiled down at Molly from baroque paintings, and marble busts stared over the crowd from their niches of carven wood. The only intimation that this smart party was in any way unusual was the sight of some guests kneeling at the feet of their masters and mistresses. 

Molly blushed to see them, these submissives like herself. Here, a man looked up adoringly at a tall woman as her fingers wove through his short hair; there, a man reached down to a woman wearing a leather collar, tugging open her dress and pulling out one round breast. Molly looked away, then looked back, shyly, to watch the man pinch and pluck at the brown nipple, whispering in her ear. The few others in the group were watching and smiling, and Molly felt her own nipples hardening against the lining of her dress. 

Molly became aware of Sherlock’s eyes on her; his hand tightened over hers as they stood just inside the door. “How are you feeling, Molly?” he whispered. “Skull,” she replied, and he smiled. 

A classically beautiful woman with long brown hair rose from a nearby chair and walked over on high heels to greet Sherlock. “Sigerson. It’s been ages. Where have you been these last few years?” she asked, her voice sweet and high.

“Busy,” Sherlock answered, clasping the woman’s hand. “Still playing with Berowne, I see.” 

“And who is this?” the woman asked, turning her grey eyes to Molly. 

“Proserpina,” Sherlock and Molly answered at the same time. The woman gave Sherlock a crooked smile. 

“Rosaline. A pleasure, Proserpina,” she said. “Do you share, Sigerson?” 

“Not yet,” Sherlock said. He looked down at Molly. “Maybe never.”

“I rather thought you’d be coming here with that handsome little friend of yours,” Rosaline said. “He’s a naive one, to be sure, but then you like them wide-eyed, don’t you.” 

“Hm. John Watson is not interested, or not enough. He’s married now, in any case. And how is Irene?” 

“Who?” Rosaline said, and she and Sherlock laughed. Molly looked between them, feeling a little forlorn, though Sherlock’s hand was still warm in hers. 

“I should check Berowne’s circulation,” Rosaline said. “I’ll see you two later.” As Rosaline made her way back and sat down, Molly noticed that the very young gentleman in the armchair next to Rosaline’s was, in fact, tied to it. 

“How old is that young man, Sherlock? Do you know?” Molly asked, bending her head discreetly. 

“I saw him here about three years ago, so he must be at least twenty-four by now,” Sherlock replied. “Indra won’t allow them any younger. One of those ethics things.”

“Oh.” Molly felt she’d been saying that rather often, recently.

“Something to drink?” Sherlock pulled her over to a table laden with sweet and savory finger foods, and glasses of thick, dark-red liquid that proved to be the juice of blood oranges. Molly sipped at her glass, looked around her, and noticed that she could see a lot more skin than was visible even a few moments before. 

The kneeling man had left off his shirt somewhere, and was having his hands bound behind his back by thick leather cuffs. Another woman was pulling her dress down her body, revealing a long expanse of shining black skin; her friend stroked her belly and breasts as she settled on her lap. 

A now-familiar sound reached Molly’s ears: the sound of flesh striking flesh. The woman who’d had her breasts toyed with was now bent over a table, her skirt flipped up and her lacy pants down around her pretty feet as her male Dominant spanked her bare bottom. The woman let out a groan as the man’s hand dipped between her legs.

Watching the last couple, Sherlock pulled Molly close and growled in her ear. “Such good memories, Molly.” His free hand stroked her arm and roamed her belly; his erection pressed against Molly’s hip. The male scent of his body rose into her brain like a smoke.

Molly remembered the night Sherlock had bent her over her lab counter and slipped his wicked fingers into her trembling body as she’d oscillated between confusion, lust, and disbelief that Sherlock was making her fantasies real. Her fevered imagination conjured a picture of Sherlock in a freezing stairwell, afterward, his panting breath fogging the air in front of his beautiful face as he hunched over a railing and and pulled desperately on his cock. The woman’s cries grew louder, and Molly felt a liquid rush between her legs. 

Sherlock’s mouth was on hers, and his fingers crept inside the bodice of her dress to swirl against her hard little nipples. Sherlock gasped into her mouth as Molly pressed her hand against the throbbing bulge in his trousers. A wild idea popped into Molly’s head.

“Sherlock,” Molly whispered as Sherlock bent her backward, cradling her head to kiss her white throat. “I want you to take off my dress.” Sherlock stopped and looked into her face. “Really? Your first time here?” 

“Yes,” she said against his mouth. Her blood was on fire; she wanted to tear his clothes off, to kneel humbly at his feet and take his cock in her mouth, but most of all, she wanted to please him, to thrill him, to have him claim her as his own. “Put me on display, Sherlock. Properly on display. In front of all these people.” 

“You really are a little wanton, aren’t you, Molly. Craving for eyes on your naked body. Who’d ever have guessed it,” Sherlock said, his eyes gathering sinister shadows. 

“You would,” Molly told him. Impulsively, she took a handful of his curls in her fist and pulled, hard. 

Sherlock’s reaction was instantaneous; with a low cry of fury, he tore her hand from his hair and jerked her off her feet, throwing her over his shoulder. Molly struggled, squealing joyfully and beating her little fists against his back; heads turned as Sherlock bore Molly through double doors into a darkened room that was punctuated with small areas of bright light.

Spotlights, Molly realised as Sherlock stepped right underneath one and set her on her feet, pushing her back against a column with his body. Over his shoulder, Molly saw that quite a few people from the first room were following them through the double doors, their smiling faces falling into a circle just outside the pool of white light where she and Sherlock were grappling. 

Sherlock was tugging at her dress, pulling it up her body and exposing her stocking-clad legs; he lifted her, and Molly wrapped her legs around his waist and ground her aching pussy against his straining erection, something she’d never dared to do before. Sherlock let out a snarl of lust and thrust her against the column, none too gently.

“Safeword, Molly, are you sure?” he whispered in her ear, pausing for a moment; his hands at her waist were full of the fabric of her dress. 

“Skull, Sherlock, take it off me. And touch me, please touch me,” Molly whispered back, baring her throat and raising her arms above her head as if in surrender, and Sherlock tore the dress up and off her body and flung it to the base of the column. Molly heard a gasp or two as her very naughty lingerie came into view.

Molly felt cool air on her nipples and on the wet patch in her pants; lifting her face, she breathed, closing her eyes and seeing red against the bright light above. Sherlock was holding her wrists up over her head. He pulled her away from the column, lifting her wrists hard so that she had to waver on tiptoe, every line of her body straining. 

“Proserpina,” Sherlock said theatrically to the gathering audience, his great voice echoing into the dark corners of the room. “Abducted by the lord of the underworld and taken from her life of innocence to his hidden kingdom.” The crowd tittered. Molly felt their eyes like heat on her breasts, so lewdly exposed by the cradling cups of her bra.

Sherlock let her heels touch the ground again, but kept her wrists high with one hand while his other roamed down her body. His fingertips snapped against her nipples, and Molly gave a low cry; mercilessly, Sherlock slid his hand beneath the silky fabric of her pants and slipped a cool finger into her slit. “Proserpina, open your eyes. Look at me.”

Molly fluttered her lids open and looked into pools of blackness, shadowed under Sherlock’s brows; she could just make out his eyes locked on hers, the pupils blown so wide that Molly’s medical mind felt a twinge of concern. Then his fingers pinched her clit, and all thought fled. 

“Look at me, Proserpina. You’re mine now,” Sherlock growled. He leaned his back against the column and pulled Molly’s back against his chest. He released his hold on her wrists, and she gratefully bent her elbows beside her head and threaded her hands into his curls. 

“Good little Proserpina, keeping those arms up and those pink breasts on display. I think you’ll like the underworld,” Sherlock said by her ear, his touch growing harder and sweet, so sweet on her swollen bud. “In fact, I suspect you very much enjoy being here in the darkness with all of us.” He gripped her hair and turned her face toward his, capturing her mouth in a cruel, biting kiss. His fingers worked her, and worked her, and Molly could barely breathe.

Sherlock tugged her pants as far down as they would go under her suspender belt; it was more than enough to bring the sparse hair between her legs into full view so that everyone could see Sherlock’s wet fingers slipping into her crease. Molly’s face was burning; she felt her body reaching toward its peak.

“Proserpina, my little Proserpina, perhaps you would like to stay here in the dark with your lord? Perhaps you would like to swallow some seeds?” Sherlock ground his cock into Molly’s bottom just as she understood the meaning of his words, and Molly came, keening helplessly and bucking into his wicked fingers. 

Murmurs of wonder and admiration arose from the watching crowd, but Sherlock allowed her no moment of rest; he pushed Molly down to her knees onto the hard wooden floor, tore open his trousers and freed his cock. Eagerly, not waiting for his order, Molly put her hands on his hard thighs and took him sweetly into her soft mouth, moaning in supplication as she drew him in and out. After only a moment or two, she felt his cock beginning to twitch against her tongue; he wouldn’t last long. 

“Open your throat for my cock, little Proserpina. Swallow my seed, swallow every drop.” Sherlock’s hands were implacable against the sides of her head; Molly held down her gag reflex and calmly took his thrust into her throat. Sherlock gave a deep growl from behind his clenched teeth, and came, his semen pulsing into Molly’s belly. And when Molly drew him out of her mouth and grinned up into his face, the watching crowd actually cheered. 

Laughing, Molly jumped up and kissed Sherlock, and he cradled her against him, murmuring her name, her real name, over and over into her ear as their audience broke into excited conversation all around them.

“Sherlock! The first big scene of the night, and what a scene!” Indra was suddenly beside them, smiling his pride and approval. 

“Indra,” Sherlock panted, hastily tucking his cock back inside his trousers. “Where can I take my Proserpina for a moment alone?” 

“This way,” Indra replied, turning and calling for people to move aside. Sherlock bent to scoop up Molly’s dress, then grabbed her hand and quickly towed her after their host through the happily chattering crowd. 

*****

Indra showed Sherlock and Molly to a little room off the main hall and retired swiftly. Sherlock threw the deadbolt, kicked off his shoes and pulled Molly onto the sheet-covered bed. 

“Magnificent, Molly, you are magnificent,” he kept telling her, holding her hard against his body, which was practically vibrating with excitement. 

For her part, Molly was shaking as if she’d just lifted a heavy weight; she cuddled against Sherlock, panting and giggling. Gradually, both of them started taking longer breaths, growing calmer and sinking into a deep contentment.

Molly found that she wasn’t sleepy as she usually was after they played; brimful of energy, she propped her chin on Sherlock’s chest and smiled into his face. 

“Bright-eyed Molly,” Sherlock said. “What are you thinking of?” 

“You mean you can’t tell?” Molly teased, rolling off him onto her back. She playfully kicked her legs up toward the ceiling, and when Sherlock did the same, she laughed to see his trousers falling away from his bony ankles and feet in dress socks, so comically huge next to her little feet in their misty black silk stockings. 

“Contrary to rumour, I cannot actually read minds,” Sherlock said, capturing one of her feet between his for a moment. “I attempt deduction based on facial expressions and situational context. I used to be rather rubbish at it, but I’ve become much better these last few years.” 

“Oh? How’s that?” Molly asked, dropping her legs and cuddling against him again. 

“John Watson. But you are not changing the subject, Molly. What are you thinking of?”

 _That I love you, Sherlock Holmes._ But what if he didn’t want to hear that? Much as her cowardice pained her heart, Molly couldn’t quite bring herself to risk spoiling such a happy and triumphant moment in their relationship. Instead, she said, “I was just thinking how much I enjoyed that.”

“You astonished me, Molly. I astonished myself,” he told her. “Ordinarily I would consult with my partner in advance before a scene like that, at least until I knew more about the person’s limits and proclivities. But tonight, I...just acted. I knew at each moment what was needed to create a satisfactory conclusion.”

Molly giggled a bit at his choice of words. “It felt good,” she said, growing serious. “All my life I’ve been sort of...hiding myself away, you know? Staying quiet and avoiding attention. But with you I just feel…safe. Like you’re proud of me, and no one would dare make fun of me.” 

“I _am_ proud of you, Molly. So proud it scares me.” He held her against him, and Molly listened to the heart deep inside his body, still beating quickly many minutes after their exertions. 

They were quiet for a few moments, then Sherlock bounced off the bed and pulled some bottled water out of a small refrigerator. He made Molly swallow a full pint before helping her dust off her dress and put it back on. Molly peeped into the mirror; miraculously, her hairstyle was still mostly intact. She wiped a smudge of makeup from under her left eye and decided she would do.

“Now, Molly. Would you like to leave for the night, or would you like to see some more?”

Molly’s sly grin was all the answer Sherlock needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...So Indra is an OC, but Rosaline is not! Do you recognize her? 
> 
> This fic is gearing up for its endgame, but I have no idea how long it will take to get there. Thank you all for your kindness and for riding along!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with Brit-picking by the gracious and erudite aberlioness! 
> 
> WARNING: This chapter contains some unsavory goings-on, including some violence, but both are at/below the levels we see in canon. Rest assured that the smut levels will continue to rocket far beyond anything you'll (ever) see in canon :) especially in future chapters! Enjoy!

Sherlock and Indra were deep in serious conversation, sitting well forward on their chairs to bend toward each other, their faces only inches apart in the candlelight. Molly sat on a damask floor cushion a few feet away, under the supervision of Rosaline, and tried not to pay too much attention to the men, but, maddeningly, Sherlock’s eyes kept flicking to her face. Their words were impossible to make out over the pounding industrial music and the buzz of talk, but in a momentary lull Molly heard Indra’s rising voice saying “---fair to her, but if you---” and her face grew warm with the near-certainty that she was the subject under discussion. 

She’d look away, then, feign interest in the painted walls, Rosaline’s spike heels crossed in front of her, Berowne’s naked, drowsing form on the other side. Like a glamourous gargoyle, Rosaline was watching the entry hall while Indra and Sherlock talked; a few people were still trickling in, even at this late hour, and no one would pass unchallenged to the inner rooms. She had just questioned a blond man in a white suit for some minutes; the fact that he’d arrived alone had seemed to annoy Rosaline, but after closely inspecting both of the handwritten invitation cards he’d proffered, she’d sent him in with a sigh and taken her chair again, throwing an annoyed glance at the two men who were still gesticulating in their respective armchairs. 

Molly was growing drowsy; the night was winding on into the small hours and the electronic music was carrying her into a sort of reverie as everything she’d seen tonight blurred together in front of her eyes. 

She and Sherlock had emerged from their little refuge and wandered through rooms full of revelers in various states of undress and ecstasy. In one hallway, a man stood against the wall for a flogging, his back and arse growing redder and redder under the attentions of a tall, cold-eyed woman in red leather. In a wide drawing room, men and women were bound to wooden frames to be touched and tormented; Molly had flinched away from the sight of a person suspended from the ceiling with trickles of blood painting her breasts. And in a room whose glass walls and ceiling had allowed moonlight to shine softly in on the lush bromeliads and laden orange trees, a shapely young woman and her handsome older partner were locked in passionate embrace on a wicker settee. 

Molly had gazed at the last couple for a long moment, her body burning to take the woman’s place, to be the one draped over the settee in the moonlight with Sherlock pressing behind her, inside her, her bound hands prayerful over her head. She’d turned to look searchingly at Sherlock, but his face had been obscure in the shadows of the leaves. 

Everywhere they went, they had been greeted with murmurs of “Proserpina, Proserpina,” from the many guests who had watched their earlier performance; Molly had smiled shyly, ducked her head, and swayed closer to Sherlock. He’d usually responded to the guests’ interest with a sardonic nod or a few drawling words, his hands circling Molly’s body protectively, possessively. 

Once, he had taken over the beating of a sturdy young man whose Dominant had recognized Sherlock and offered him the crop, and Molly had quailed to see the brutal force Sherlock had put behind the wicked implement and the livid red marks he’d left on the bare arse and thighs, much to the admiring gasps of the watchers. After he’d returned the crop to the Dominant, Sherlock had laughed to see the expression on Molly’s face and led her away from the sound of the man’s ongoing cries. 

A few moments later, Sherlock had turned a little pale and paused to lean against a doorframe, one hand pressing against the place under his right pectoral where he’d been shot months before. Molly had felt a pang of concern; she’d almost forgotten about his wound in the past few days as he’d tied, physically restrained and even carried her many times with supreme nonchalance. “Just a bit sore,” Sherlock had told her before Indra had appeared and summoned Sherlock back to the room of candles for their discussion. 

Molly blinked awake at the sound of Sherlock’s raised voice in time to see his hands clenching into fists. Indra was sitting back in his armchair with a grave expression and folded hands, watching Sherlock as he got up and pulled on his suit jacket. Sherlock came over to take Molly’s hand and pull her to her feet, giving Rosaline and Indra a curt nod apiece before towing Molly out of the candlelit room.

“Sherlock,” Molly said, furrowing her brow and blinking a bit as they crossed the hall, “what was that all about?” 

Sherlock stopped in the doorway, not looking at Molly as a tall man pushed past them, leading a woman on a leash. “Indra was just trying to inform me of some facts of which I am already well aware,” he said with a twitch of his lips. “Always the teacher, Indra. He taught me most of what I know about being a Dominant, but can’t seem to help giving advice on some matters he doesn’t really understand.” He stuck his chin out and tapped one shoe on the base of the doorframe. “Come on, Molly,” he said, straightening and grabbing her hand, “the night’s not over yet.”

Sherlock led her past dozens of guests and into a small chamber off the main drawing room. The walls were carven wood, very dark; the ceiling between the beams had been painted indigo blue several centuries ago. A few couples were standing around talking, but there came a lull in their conversation when Sherlock tugged Molly into the room and pushed her up against the wall beside the door. 

“I need to take off your dress again, Molly,” he growled at her, hands urgent on her breasts, in her hair. That gathering dark was in his eyes again, and though Molly was still a little disturbed by what she’d just seen between Sherlock and Indra, her body was responding enthusiastically to the sight. Pavlovian response, Molly supposed, trying to care enough about the little she’d learned at uni about operant conditioning, and failing in the face of Sherlock grasping her wrists and forcing her harder against the wall with his body. 

“No, I want you to take the dress off,” he said, releasing her suddenly and bending his head toward the people who were trickling into the room after them. “Do it. Or safeword out. But don’t make me wait, Molly.”

Molly sucked in a breath, seeing many faces turning toward them and feeling as though another spotlight were being trained on her. Anxiety was churning in her mind, warring with the heat in her belly at the sight of the beautiful, dangerous man who was panting with arousal inches away.

It seemed that one way Sherlock dealt with strong emotions was by seeking a sexual outlet, Molly thought in a flash, remembering those hours after midnight in his sitting room, not so long ago, when he’d cried with fear and, a moment later, almost begged for her submission. Even now, Sherlock’s severe expression was cracking just the slightest bit around the eyes as she hesitated. Clearly Indra had upset him deeply. Perhaps it wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, but Molly had no insight, no answers for Sherlock, so now, as then, she wasn’t about to deny Sherlock the comfort of control. 

Molly pulled the dress over her head and let the delicate fabric slip through her fingers to puddle on the dark wooden floor, shifting from one foot to the other. Like a dancer, Sherlock matched her sway, closing in on her again to trap her against the wall and claim her mouth, his hard fingers pulling her hands down behind her back. 

His teeth scraped her lips as he pulled away from their kiss, and Sherlock propelled her by her trapped hands toward a vast wooden desk. “Down, Molly. Drop your knickers. Show us that pretty pink cunt.”

Urgently, Molly scrambled to the desk to lie face down. The dark antique wood was cool under her cheek as she pulled down her pants as far as they would go under the straps of her suspender belt. She squirmed and arched her back, putting on a little show for the voyeur in her own mind, and adding a few mewls for good measure.

“No, no, no!” Sherlock shouted, and Molly stilled in dismay. She felt his fingers then, ripping at the garters, tearing the fasteners away from her stockings and tugging her pants down to the floor. “I will most definitely be having a word with Bridget Choi about proper _accessibility_ ,” Sherlock snarled as Molly peeked back over her shoulder. “Too bad she’s not here, or I’d paddle that round arse of hers until she bleeds, or comes, whichever. No luck for you, little Proserpina,” he continued, and drew his hand back to strike Molly’s bottom. 

Her pained yelps were unfeigned; Sherlock was spanking her hard, as hard as he’d ever done, though from his performance before Molly suspected he was still holding something back for her sake. But oh, he was pushing her, she thought as the tears flowed out of her eyes. Could she bear three more blows? She could, it seemed; could she take three more again? Yes, it was happening, had happened, but what if he didn’t stop, what if she couldn’t control her screaming for long enough to choke out her safeword? Molly could feel her legs trembling, her knees starting to buckle, and then Sherlock’s body was mounting hers, crushing her into the desk, the fabric of his trousers harsh against her abused bottom. 

“I want you, Proserpina,” he said beside her head, his voice loud and cold. “I want to take out my cock and pierce your cunt with it, listen to you cry as I stretch you, leave you quivering and full of my come. Should I do it, Proserpina?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” Molly cried, pushing her arse back against the pressure of his erection. Would he really do it? Even without… “Please, please, yes.” Through her tears, Molly could see that two or three people had circled the desk and were standing quite close to them, watching, watching.

“Sex in front of everyone, little Proserpina,” he purred. “Filthy girl. Or is it that you’re so hungry for my cock in your belly that you’ll submit to public violation?” Molly gave a moan of despair, of wanting, and bucked her hips into him. 

Sherlock barked, “Condom,” and held out his hand, never looking away from Molly. A long pause, a murmur.

“Here, Sigerson,” said a male voice quite close at hand, and Molly heard the crackle of foil. 

Suddenly, Sherlock stilled above her, and Molly felt him shift, turning to face the voice. “What did you say?” he said, his voice grown low. Molly turned to look.

“Here’s a condom, I said,” said the man in the white suit. “What?” he said, but his eyes were already flicking to the side. 

Sherlock exploded off Molly and onto the man in the white suit, slamming him back against the wall just as he’d done to Molly, except this time Molly heard the wood paneling creak and groan under the impact of the two men. The condom dropped to the floor, forgotten.

“Who do you work for?” Sherlock roared into the man’s face, his voice carrying between the rooms, and all talk died around them. Sherlock jerked backward and twisted the man’s hands behind his back, doubling him over. Roughly, Sherlock slammed the man into the wall again, face first, then snatched at the white jacket and held out a mobile phone with an active camera screen; the red “record” symbol was blinking. 

Molly felt her insides recoiling in horror, and she slid off the desk to crumple on the floor. A woman Molly didn’t recognize crouched beside her and held out a small blanket, carefully not touching her but giving her the option to cover herself. Molly pulled the blanket around herself gratefully, making herself as small as possible against the desk drawers and never looking away from the two men.

“Who are you working for! Tell me!” Sherlock’s great voice rang through the suddenly silent house.

“I don’t---Ah!” The man shouted in pain as Sherlock twisted his grip. 

“Filming my partner without permission on a hidden camera phone, in the house of Indra. You have made a colossal mistake, my friend,” Sherlock told him, his face full of a cold blankness that Molly had never seen. He was forcing the man’s arm into an impossible angle. 

“Get your hands off me. You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” the man hissed, blood spattering from his mouth onto his white shoes.

“I know you’re a recently divorced, moderately successful dentist from central London and that you’ve made some interesting new friends recently,” Sherlock continued. “Your success is now at an end, for I will be calling in a little favour. You will be prosecuted for tax fraud, you will be convicted of major malpractice, and you will lose your license. And that, my _friend,_ is just the beginning.”

Molly heard a sickening crack, and the man in the white suit screamed. Sherlock had broken his arm. The crowd watched, silent.

“You have chosen to interfere with the wrong people. Thus, the police will not help you, and if you wish to avoid incarceration, your life in Britain is over,” Sherlock said, shoving the man down and knocking his face against the hard floor, where he remained, cradling his arm and sobbing. Sherlock stood up, pocketing the mobile and the man’s wallet. 

“What is going on here?” Indra was shouldering his way into the room. When he saw the whimpering man on the floor, he looked up at Sherlock, who was stepping past the man’s body and crouching next to Molly. 

“This man is in violation of house rules and basic human decency,” he told Indra, flashing the phone screen at Indra before pocketing it again and pulling Molly against him. Molly shivered, half-afraid of her lover, her body gone numb.

Indra’s eyes flared wide, and he twisted his mouth up in disgust. “Raijin. Habibi,” he said in clipped tones, pointing his chin at two of the bigger males in the crowd. “Would you kindly assist me in escorting this gentleman upstairs, where I shall inquire of him how he got in tonight.”

“I passed him through,” Rosaline said from the door as the two men hauled the man in the white suit to his feet, none too gently. “I’m so sorry, Indra. He showed me two invitations he’d got through Tsarina, but told me she had urgent business in Downing Street. We need to send someone out to check on Tsarina immediately.”

“See to it, Rosaline. Put Anansi in charge until I return. I’ll deal with you later,” Indra said coldly, and Rosaline dropped her eyes and walked off in the direction of the main hall.

Indra turned back to face Sherlock and Molly. “Sherlock, you had better take her home,” Indra said wearily. “Proserpina. My humblest apologies for this truly appalling incident. I assure you that it will be thoroughly dealt with.” Indra looked over his shoulder at the man in the white suit as he was hauled out the door. He gave Sherlock a last, cool glance, then followed. 

Sherlock exhaled in a gust of breath, dropping his head toward the ground. His arms circled her gently. “Molly. How are you? You’re crying.” 

The crowd around them was quickly thinning, and those who remained had drawn away from where the two of them huddled on the floor. Grateful for their tactful withdrawal, Molly clung to the lapels of Sherlock’s jacket. “Go home, I want to go home. Sherlock, just please take me home,” she begged. “That bastard, he had to spoil...” Overcome by fury and frustration as much as shock, Molly wept into his shirt. 

Sherlock made as though to scoop her up, then shook his head, pressing his hand against his surgical scar. “I can’t carry you, I...I’m hurting. I am sorry, Molly.” 

“I don’t need to be carried this time, Sherlock,” Molly said, wiping her face and clambering to her feet. Sherlock didn’t reply, but reached to grab Molly’s dress from the floor and awkwardly put it over her head. “Just get this on and we’ll go straight away.”

Molly pulled the rather battered dress into place and belatedly bent to snatch her knickers from the floor. She handed the blanket back to the woman and thanked her for the consideration, then without another word to anyone, she and Sherlock stumbled back toward the main hall and the sanctuary of the car. 

*****

Molly was barely aware of the long ride home. She’d wept herself into a fitful doze while Sherlock drove, stony-faced, back into London. When she finally woke, it was because Sherlock was standing by her opened door, asking her to climb out of the Jaguar and into a waiting cab. 

Dawn was breaking over the city by the time Sherlock and Molly slowly made their way up the stairs at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock had pulled Molly into the bedroom and removed her kit, his fingers probing her scalp to find any remaining hairpins. He had covered her in the duvet and lain down beside her, steepling his fingers under his chin and staring up at the ceiling. 

Molly was able to sleep only a few hours before her body roused her; Sherlock was gone from the bed. From the bathroom, Molly could hear his voice rising and falling in the sitting room, probably talking on the phone. Tired to her soul, her eyes swollen and gritty, Molly thought about going back to bed, but wrapped herself in one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns and padded out to the kitchen to find something to help chase away the shadows in her brain. 

“...Yes. My brother has ways, and Mr Hardy’s downfall has already been set in motion....No, I think that will be sufficient. No need for his body to be found with a shilling in the mouth or any of that sort of thing, although really Mr Hardy’s fate is quite beside the point. Yes, I’ll see to it.”

Sherlock was fully dressed and silhouetted against the window, which was far too bright. Molly blinked, then turned to fill the electric kettle and fumble out some cleanish-looking mugs. Sherlock turned to look at her as he continued to talk, an edge in his voice. 

“Yes, Indra, I remember. I heard you the first time. No, I have to go. I’ll keep you updated.” 

Sherlock rang off and turned toward Molly. “Ah, tea. Lovely.” He kissed her forehead, and Molly was charmed at the tender gesture until he added, “You look awful, Molly,” before bending to open the small, corpse-free appliance that John had purchased and dubbed “the milk fridge.” 

Annoyed, Molly couldn’t help banging the cupboard door as she got out the tea bags. Sherlock turned toward her. “Problem?”

“I’d say so,” Molly said. “What exactly happened last night, Sherlock?” She folded her arms over her breasts.

“We went to an exclusive house party, where I introduced you to some friends and we had some fun. Then we had a little run-in with a ham-fisted creeper hired by the world’s most dangerous blackmailer, whom I shall personally deal with before the year is out.”

“Blackmailer?” Molly said. “He was trying to get something on you?”

“Not on me, Molly. On you. It appears that a certain interest has been taken in our new...arrangement, and that an opportunity was identified to allow this blackmailer to consolidate and extend his hold over me. In his mind, you’ve become a pressure point.”  
Sherlock’s mouth curled in disgust. “He meant to shame you. Or to ‘own you,’ as he puts it, using the threat of shame.”

The electric kettle clicked off, but Molly didn’t move to pour the water. She stood motionless, looking at Sherlock. 

“It’s being dealt with,” he continued, pushing past her to fill their mugs himself. “I’ve confirmed that the phone made no transmission. Then I destroyed the data personally.” Sherlock plucked a clear plastic bag from the countertop, and Molly recognized the pulverised remains of the mobile Sherlock had confiscated. 

Sherlock dropped the bag and continued. “Indra takes these little breaches of security very seriously, as do I. People like us use pseudonyms for very good reasons, Molly. What’s more, Indra’s little family all stand together when we’re threatened. This blackmailer is very likely to regret having stirred up this particular nest of hornets, and soon. Drink your tea, Molly.”

She didn’t move. “Sherlock, what do you mean when you say you will deal with the blackmailer? What are you planning?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself over, Molly. A little negotiation between gentlemen. A trade, or indeed a silent heist in the best case. All very civilised.” 

“Sherlock, I know that look.” Molly pressed her lips together unhappily. “You’re being too flippant. You’re shutting me out. If the blackmailer didn’t get anything to hold over me, why not just leave him alone?”

His smile dropped. “Because you’re far from the only person under threat.”

Molly opened her mouth to reply, but the doorbell sounded, and Sherlock stepped away, eager for once to let someone in. Molly, feeling too exposed in the silk dressing gown, retired to the bedroom, but re-emerged when she heard the voice of Mary, John’s wife. She was crying. 

“...and he’s not answering his phone for me, and it’s been almost two days. Please, Sherlock, I’m sorry to ask you of all people but I just can’t bear it,” Mary sobbed, cradling her very pregnant belly as she carefully lowered herself onto the sofa.

“I’ll call him, Mary. Do stop sniveling. Uh, drink this, I suppose,” Sherlock said, grabbing his own mug and setting it before Mary with a small splash, then whipping around and pulling out his phone. 

“Oh, hello, Molly,” Mary called from the sofa, giving her a weak, watery smile. Shyly, Molly crept over in bare feet to sit beside her, grateful that Mary wasn’t arching her eyebrow at either her presence or her state of dress. But then, she seemed very preoccupied. 

“It’s John,” Mary sighed, her eyes on Sherlock, who had stalked to the window, holding his phone to his ear. “I haven’t heard from him for ages, not since he walked out after we rowed.” 

“It’s ringing out,” Sherlock said, lowering his phone. “Ugh, he’s set up his voicemail box. I refuse to leave voicemail, it’s the very essence of ineffectuality and time wastage. A whole sequence of tasks just to hear some equivalent of ‘Oh I’ve called you! And guess why, it’s because I want to talk to you, so now you ought to call me!’ Ridiculous.” 

Mary’s sobs grew louder. “Sherlock, it’s happening again, he’s been taken again.” 

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Mary,” Sherlock sat and flipped open his laptop, and Molly saw the tension drawn in his hands, the line of his mouth. “I’ll see if I can track his phone and we’ll go from there.”

“I’ve already hacked into the CCTV feeds around the clinic and his usual pubs,” Mary said, and Molly turned to look at her, astonished. “But there was too much data to go through on my own.”

Just then, Sherlock’s phone rang. “John?...It’s John,” he told Mary, whose eyes were locked on the detective. “Where are you? This connection is disgraceful. Mary is worrying herself sick on my sofa.” Sherlock paced across the room. “Oh, you did. Well, that’s a bit rubbish. You didn’t need to go all the way to Tintagel for that. One can _think_ anywhere, or hadn’t you noticed?” He rolled his eyes at Mary, who was beaming damply and squeezing Molly’s hand. “Oh, dull. You had better talk to your wife, John. No? Well, at least try to avoid falling in the ocean, won’t you.” 

Sherlock lowered his phone. “Seems John felt the need for a bit of a _ramble_ down the seaside path,” he said with a mocking skip and flap of his hands. “Said he needed some air. As if air is not freely available in every corner of London. Quite a row, was it?”

“That’s enough, Sherlock. As long as he’s not drugged up in a bonfire somewhere. All one can really hope for these days, it seems, but I’ll take it.” Mary hauled herself to her feet. “Ta, Sherlock. Oh!” 

Mary bent a little to one side, holding her belly and grimacing. Sherlock was beside her before Molly so much as moved. 

“Are you well? Does it hurt, Mary? You’re not due yet, but the fetus is certainly viable at this many weeks’ gestation---”

“---as I know far better than you, Sherlock. It’s fine, put that phone away. The baby’s just kicking.” Mary smiled brightly and took his hand. “Come here, now. You too, Molly.” And Mary laid their hands against her belly. “Just there! Feel it.”

Sherlock grew still, his large hand touching Molly’s as they both felt the baby’s fluttering movements near Mary’s ribs. “They really…” he said, his brow furrowing. “Oh! That was rather...The baby’s moving, Molly!” He looked up at her, his eyes grown wide. 

Molly smiled up at his slack-jawed face. “Baby Watson,” she murmured, dropping her eyes as the kicking continued under her fingers. “John’s little one.” 

Sherlock’s expression changed, becoming something closed off and unreadable, but Mary spoke before Molly could ask. “Haven’t you felt a baby kick before, Sherlock?”

“No,” Sherlock replied. “I never have.” He looked at Molly, and the image of a young, thin face echoed in her mind.

“Well, you should just visit more often,” Mary told him, drawing away and closing her coat once more. “I won’t be pregnant for that much longer. I’ll tell you all about it, Sherlock. Diurnal rhythms, relation to maternal glycemic levels, orthostatic effects...” 

Sherlock followed Mary to the door like a puppy, already stammering out a dozen questions at once, but Mary pushed him back inside. “Later, Sherlock. Got my shift at the clinic in a bit. Thank you so much for rousting my husband. It’s such a relief to know he’s just...thinking.” 

Sherlock pulled Mary into a hug. “Take care, Mary. I’ll call you later. I need data…” Mary laughed and kissed his cheek. Then she was gone, and Sherlock and Molly looked at each other across a suddenly very quiet room.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to aberlioness for Brit-picking. 
> 
> And without further ado...

As they stood facing each other, Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He read the text, rolled his eyes, and showed the screen to Molly. 

Mary had written, _You be good to her, Sherlock._

“I don’t know why she apparently thinks I’m not good to you. Case in point: your phone, and your clothes.” Sherlock pointed to a plastic bag marked _Bridget Choi Designs_ that was sitting next to the door. “I had Bridget drop them with Mrs Hudson, first thing. And now you have tea, sort of. And I’ll find you breakfast if you’re hungry. There now. Look at all I do for you.” 

Molly walked past him and scooped up the bag, not saying that Mary clearly hadn’t been talking about clothes or tea or food. She checked her phone: Beth had texted her an hour ago. 

_Still going to that doctor appointment tomorrow morning?_

Mimicking his earlier motion, Molly showed him the screen. “Remember what I’m doing for you, Sherlock.”

She could actually see his face drain of color. He dropped onto the sofa and closed his eyes. 

“Sherlock,” Molly began slowly, turning her phone over in her hands. “You were going to have sex with me last night, proper sex, before...what happened. Weren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, eyes still closed. “I would have. God, I wanted to.” 

“Even before I had the IUD implanted."

“It seems so. You are on the pill, after all.”

Molly took a breath, then asked the question that had been haunting her for hours, ever since she came back to her senses after the terrible final moments of that party. “Why in front of all those people, Sherlock? Our first time.”

He looked at her then, blinking. “Why not? You enjoy people looking at you, clearly. Why would you not want them to watch in this case? Make it more exciting? I thought I’d take the opportunity while we had an audience.”

Molly bit the inside of her mouth, cold creeping under her skin. She’d been afraid he would say something like that. “Because I would want our first time to be...special. Private. Something just for us.” 

“Molly.” His voice held a rising tone, a warning.

“I don’t understand you, Sherlock,” Molly said, crossing her arms and hugging herself. “You say things to me, lovely heartfelt things, while we’re in the afterglow, but then later you try to act as if you’ve forgotten everything you said, as if I’m plain Molly Hooper to you, just as always.”

“Aren’t you?” Sherlock replied, frowning. “Why would you be any different?”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Molly felt tears begin to sting in her tired eyes. 

Sherlock got up, began to pace. “You’ve grown sentimental. I should have known. We agreed that this would be just sex between us, Molly. I told you at the beginning that I’ve never been in love with anyone and never will. I may say foolish things while I’m coping with a wash of oxytocin and dopamine, but it’s all just a chemical reaction. You’ve been to medical school, Molly. Please be logical.” 

Back and forth, back and forth. His pacing was making her dizzy.

“It’s not just sex, Sherlock, and you know it,” Molly flared. “And admit it, you knew I was bound to feel that way. You’ve known for years, Sherlock! And you approached me, seduced me, because some part of you couldn’t help coming closer. You wanted to see what could happen.”

He stopped short, and Molly caught a guilty look in his eye as he turned away. She pressed on, drawing a thin strand of confidence from that. 

“As for logic, I'm more logical than you right now, Sherlock. I remember what you said to me, about being proud, and moved, and grateful. Not exactly sweet nothings you'd only say if your brain was soaked in endogenous opiates.” 

“Exogenous opiates, then? You think I’m on drugs again, is that it? Want me to pee in a jar again now, want me to test positive so you can despise me, the weak and contemptible addict?” he snarled. 

“No, Sherlock! You’re trying to distract me again. Stop it, it’s dishonest.” Molly’s voice shook, and her face burned, but she forced words out by pure will. “No, Sherlock, I think...I think you’re in love with me.”

“Why? Because you wish it were true?” Sherlock said, his voice quiet and so cold that Molly wished he had shouted. Stubbornly, she pressed on. 

“No. Because...because I know you, and you’ve changed from when I first met you. You may not want to admit it, even to yourself, but Sherlock, you can’t pretend not to care anymore.”

“That’s preposterous. Impossible. Sherlock Holmes does not _fall in love._ If I ever said anything to you touching on the idea of _sentiment,_ it was because I was effectively high on my own brain chemicals, and I let my guard down...stupid, stupid...” He hunched away from her and rapped stiff fingers against his forehead.

“But what would you need to guard against, Sherlock?” Molly asked as the tears began to flow down her cheeks. She could feel her heart cracking in her chest, but there was no turning back from this now.

“Sentiment is dangerous, Molly. It’s a chink in the armour. It leads people to make foolish decisions, fall prey to the unscrupulous. Just look what almost happened to you last night when someone believed I might mistake a chemical defect for something of significance!”

Molly flinched, but drew a breath. "Sherlock, love doesn't make you foolish! And you can't live your life closed off from other people just because some psychopath might try to use your feelings against the people you care about. Never forget, Sherlock, I know better than most people the risks of being close to you. And still, I love you."

Sherlock cringed and closed his eyes in a grimace, as if her avowal were the stab of a knife. "If you think you love me, Molly, then you don't really know me," he said bitterly. "You just want me, don’t you. Like all the rest. Because I am...because I look like this." He gestured at his face, his body. "This, and my mind. That's all I have that’s valuable, Molly. The rest is...no good for you. For anyone." 

“No, Sherlock that’s not true. N-no, I mean, yes, you _are_ beautiful, so beautiful it hurts me. But I know you. I see who you are, you’re passionate and determined and loyal and generous, and brave, so brave. And of course I love you, I’ve always loved you.” Molly was crying freely now. “Even while I was engaged to Tom, I loved you. And while you were...gone I spent so many nights thinking of you, hoping you would be safe, that you would come back to me. And when you did come back, everything I’d had with Tom...those feelings didn’t die, Sherlock, they just sort of...faded. Like...like a night-light when the sun comes up again."

Sherlock was silent. He looked everywhere but at her. 

“Say something, Sherlock,” Molly said, numb inside. “Don’t look away from this. Don’t you dare.” 

But Sherlock stood like a stone. His eyes were locked on a fixed point, somewhere in the direction of the mantelpiece. His chest rose and fell slowly under his arms. Finally, he spoke, his voice flat. 

“There’s nothing more to say.” 

Molly clenched her jaw. She jerked open the sash of the dressing gown and let it slip off her shoulders to the floor. Naked, she turned to pick up the plastic bag. This was the last time he’d see her. She didn’t care if he was looking. Let him look. She tore open the bag and silently pulled on yesterday’s dirty clothes. 

She couldn’t find one glove, and that was just too bad. She needed to be gone from this flat, from this brilliant, idiotic man for whom she had poured out so many years of her life, because of whom Tom had ended their brief, hopeful engagement one beautiful spring morning, the day after John’s wedding, with fewer than ten words.

She stood before him. “I’m leaving, Sherlock. I couldn’t pretend to love Tom, and I can’t pretend not to love you. I’ll be alone, but at least I will have come by my loneliness honestly.” 

Sherlock didn't move, but seemed to shrink into himself. 

Her hand was on the doorknob when Sherlock said, very quietly, “Molly. Don’t go. Not yet. I just have one question, one thing I’ve got to ask.”

Wearily, she turned to face him and waited. “Go on, Sherlock.”

“Molly, why do people love? Really, why?” 

Molly blinked, then turned her mouth down against the bitterness. “Sherlock, if you’re making fun of me...honestly, I don’t think I can bear it.”

“No, no, Molly. I’m not. Please, just...Why do people let it happen to them? All the uncertainty and messiness, all the pain when it inevitably ends. What’s the point of it?”

“Well...let me ask you a question,” Molly said, not letting go of the doorknob. “Why do you play the violin? It’s hard to learn, you have to keep practicing or lose your skill, and every tune you play has to end. What’s the point of that?”

Sherlock looked at the floor. Long moments passed.

When it was clear Sherlock had no reply, Molly shook her head and turned back to open the door.

“Molly, wait. Please.” 

Molly didn’t turn around. “Sherlock, no. No more of this.” She started down the stairs, but he called after her, desperation roughening his voice. 

“At this moment, all I know is that I cannot bear the idea of you leaving me today and never returning.”

Molly paused, the step creaking beneath her. She looked up at Sherlock, who was standing in the doorway.

“Molly, if you go, something inside me will bleed. I know I’m a pathetic excuse for a human being, but god help me, I will do anything if you would just stay. Please.” 

Despair had drained away all her fear, and Molly looked steadily at him. “There’s only one thing you could say that would keep me here, and you won’t ever say it, will you.”

Sherlock exhaled. “Before I answer that, can I just...will you just wait for one more minute? Please. I need to make a phone call. I need to call John.” He ran his hands through his hair in agitation, and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“What?” Molly was “Sherlock…”

And to her disbelief, Sherlock shut the door, leaving her standing on the stairs. She heard his footsteps crossing the sitting room, and after a moment, she could hear his voice rising and falling, the actual words frustratingly indistinct. 

All of a sudden, Molly felt ridiculous waiting on the stairs. She hadn’t said she’d stay, and it was humiliating, groveling outside Sherlock’s door, trying to eavesdrop while he worked up some final rationalisation to reject her, to shut her out. She had been wrong about his feelings, so pitiably wrong. She was plain, mousy Molly Hooper to him, would always be so, and after years of waiting and hoping, she had finally walked this path to its bitter end. 

The future was dark in front of her; she couldn’t look ahead, couldn’t begin to think how she’d heal the void that had opened in her heart. All she knew was that she needed to get far away from him, far away from Baker Street. Half-blinded by her tears, clinging to the banister, she stepped unsteadily down the stairs and out into the hall, making for the front door. 

Above her, she heard a bang and a shout, and Sherlock bounded down the stairs after her. 

“Molly. Molly, wait.” Sherlock stopped short just in front of her, looking down at her with wild eyes. He waved his phone vaguely, steadying himself against the wall. “I asked John. John says I love you.”

Molly couldn’t form words; her brain had gone white. Her knees buckled, and she sat on the hall rug, hard. She looked up at Sherlock and opened her mouth, but nothing came out. 

“I don’t trust myself, Molly. I needed to ask John what love ought to feel like. He asked me what I did feel. I told him that I’ve never known anyone like you, that I think of you all the time, that when I’m on a case I wonder what your thoughts about it would be, what insights you’d give. Seeing your face and hearing your voice makes me feel happy, and when we’re apart I long to be with you again. I feel an urge to care for you and protect you, to keep you safe. And then he asked me if I would jump off St Bart’s again for you if I had to, and I told him that was a ridiculous question, of course I would. And John told me...that’s love. I’m in love, Molly. I’m in love with you. I can’t help it.”

Sherlock got down on his knees next to her. Carefully, he held out a hand. 

“I want to try, Molly. I’ll be rubbish at it, but I’ll try to...to make you happy. If that’s what you want.”

Molly looked up into his wide, worried eyes, locked on hers. “You...asked John whether you loved me,” she said slowly.

“I did. And he assured me that I loved you, and then he thanked me. He actually thanked me, and rang off, said he was done thinking and needed to go back home to Mary right away. Probably it finally dawned on him that it’s cold out there on the sea cliffs. Bizarre little fellow, but he keeps me right, always.”

“Bizarre,” Molly laughed shakily. “Oh, Sherlock. Hark who’s talking.”

Sherlock flinched like a little boy. He turned away, but Molly pulled him back by one lapel. 

“Kiss me, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock looked back at her, exhaled, and leaned in, but a cheerful voice from behind them made him pull back. 

“‘Morning, loves,” said Mrs Hudson, bustling out into the hall in her dainty way, holding a heavily laden tea tray and surrounded by the delicious smell of baking. “Heard you two come in bright and early, well I should say dark and early, I bet you didn’t sleep at all, did you. It’s all right for you young people, rushing about on week-nights...Why, what are you both doing on the floor?”

Mrs Hudson paused, frowning. “And Molly...why is Molly crying? Sherlock!” She took a few steps toward him, the menacing effect somewhat dampened by the tinkle of china. 

Molly caught Sherlock’s eye and felt a wild desire to laugh. 

Sherlock jumped to his feet. “Everything’s just fine, Mrs Hudson. Isn’t it, Molly?” He bent his head to Mrs Hudson in a courtly way, and took the tea tray from her. 

“Yes, everything’s lovely, Mrs Hudson,” Molly beamed, dashing the tears from her face as she got up. “We were just going upstairs, weren’t we, Sherlock?” 

“Yes,” he said, holding her gaze for a significant moment. Then he turned purposefully toward the stairs, holding the tea tray with exaggerated care. 

“Thanks for the tea, Mrs Hudson.” Impulsively, Molly leaned in and gave the old lady a kiss on her sweet-smelling cheek. 

“Oh, go on with you. You know, I feel like visiting my sister today,” Mrs Hudson said. “In fact, I think I’ll just wrap up warmly and pop out to see her straight away. Maybe go to the high street as well. Won’t be back ‘til late tonight, in any event. Have a lovely day, you two.” She smiled at Molly, who blushed.

“Mrs Hudson, you’re a saint,” Sherlock called down. Molly gave Mrs Hudson a look full of gratitude, then scrambled up the stairs after her lover. 

*****

Sherlock took the tray into the kitchen and pulled out a chair for Molly, then added milk and sugar to her tea, just the way she liked it. To Molly’s delight, Mrs Hudson had provided freshly baked scones as well as a few biscuits, and Sherlock found an unopened jar of John’s favourite jam in the cupboard. They ate and drank quietly, saying little beyond asking for the jam jar, just looking at each other and smiling. 

The room was warm, despite the chilly wind that was whistling just outside the windows, and a deep peace settled inside Molly as all the doubt, all the delirium washed away, leaving just the two of them, safe and calm in his cosy kitchen.

When Molly tipped back the last of her tea and settled the cup back in its saucer, Sherlock stood up and held out his hand. Molly took it, stood, and swayed next to him, pulling him down into a kiss. 

“Where do we go from here, Molly?” Sherlock murmured into her hair. 

“Well, to start...the bedroom,” Molly replied. She took him by the hand and led him down the hall, to the bed with its sheets and duvet still crumpled from the few morning hours of sleep. 

Sherlock’s hands were gentle as he helped her out of her jumper and unbuttoned her blouse. There was no dark dominion in his eyes, only wonder, almost disbelief. Sherlock actually seemed nervous, Molly realized, watching him as he hurried out of his suit jacket with shaking hands, and catching his furtive glance at her face after he tripped a little while getting out of his trousers. 

Molly reached out to him and gathered his body against hers, bringing her hand up to the back of his head and cradling it against her hair, letting him feel her reality, the soothing warmth of her love for him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around her shoulders and gripped her, his forearms trembling against her back. 

Molly waited; she could feel his tension and hesitation, and she’d let him make the next move. There was no hurry. She’d waited long enough for these moments. 

His voice vibrated against her, deep in her bones. 

“Molly. If I died…”

“Sherlock...no.” Molly blurted, reflexively holding him tighter. She burrowed her face into his neck, smelled his warm life, felt his racing heartbeat under her lips. 

“If I died...would you cry?” 

“Oh, Sherlock, of course I would cry. If you only knew how I cried for you when you were out there, fighting for us….All I could think of was that you were risking death every day, and if you died out there, you’d die alone….”

“After you tested me for opiates...the look in your eyes, Molly. I thought you despised me.” Sherlock stepped back and cupped her face, his eyes searching hers. “Didn’t you hate me then?”

“No, Sherlock...Never. I cried for you that night, when you were sh-shot. I couldn’t eat for days. Sherlock, don’t...I don’t want to think about you dying, not right now. Not ever. Just...please...kiss me. I need you.”

Sherlock gasped, then darted his face down to hers, opening her mouth with his lips. And there, there was his hand weaving into her hair. Molly closed her eyes in ecstasy as she felt the now-familiar pull, the delicious cruelty of pressure on her scalp. 

Sherlock broke the kiss and hissed at her through his teeth. “On your back, Molly. I’m going to make you mine, right now.” He straightened up, and seemed to gather his power around himself, looming taller as his gaze on her narrowed and intensified.

Her legs went wobbly as she fumbled out of most of her clothing and staggered backward to fall on his bed, wide eyes always on his stern face. Almost instinctively, she scrambled backward when he advanced on her slowly, tossing his shirt aside and kicking away his pants. There was his cock, growing as she watched, and Molly gulped; even when she’d had him in her mouth, he’d never seemed so big as now, when she knew he meant to take her. She hoped it wouldn’t hurt. Much. 

“I said, on your back.” Sherlock struck like a snake, jumping on top of her and shoving her shoulders down onto the bed. He tore her knickers off and hurled them to the floor, then pushed her legs apart to reach wicked fingers down to her swollen cunt. 

“Already so wet for me, Molly. Lucky for you, because I’m done waiting.”

Sherlock took his cock in his hand and moved to fit his pelvis into hers. Molly felt the tip of him, barely touching the border of the deep ache she’d carried in her belly, for so very long. He paused and looked into her eyes. 

“Please, Sherlock. I’m yours,” Molly sighed. Her hands on his wiry shoulders, she pulled him downward. 

“Yes, Molly. You are.” Sherlock closed his eyes in a grimace, and lowered his body to hers, and there he was, sliding inside her, skin against skin, and oh, he was big. Molly moaned and let her head fall back on the bed. 

Sherlock was panting, red in the face. “Breathe, Molly. Try to relax.” He supported himself on shaky arms, sinking into her a little at a time.

Molly willed herself to let her muscles release, to open to him, to accept the delicious burn as he filled her. Sherlock was tall and strong, and she was little; it stood to reason that she’d need a moment to accommodate him as he penetrated her body. 

“Take a breath, Molly, I’m nearly there,” Sherlock said, scooping a hand under her bottom to adjust the tilt of her hips. “Oh...oh, good girl. Oh, Molly.”

Sherlock lay fully on top of her, his face above hers. He needed to hunch his back a little to kiss her, which served to press his pelvis into her. Molly gasped against his mouth at the slight jostle of movement in her belly. 

“You’re always safe with me, Molly,” Sherlock whispered into her ear. “But you’ve never been less safe than at this moment. I want you, Molly. I want to drive you into this bed, to fuck my fill of you. But I’ll be gentle, I swear it.”

“Not...too gentle, Sherlock,” Molly panted. She lifted her hips into his, and he rumbled out a groan, showing her all his teeth. In retaliation, he pulled away a little and pressed back deep inside her. Molly sighed, and the last of the tension left her body as she finally grew comfortable. “Go ahead. Please. I need you to move.”

“Just a moment more, Molly.” Sherlock braced himself on his elbows, and Molly wrapped her arms around his chest. “Oh, Molly, your face...so lovely while I’m stretching you.” 

“Please, please, Sherlock,” she begged, pushing her hips back against him as best she could. “I’m aching.” 

“Molly, please don’t speak...Don’t move yet, just….give me a moment,” Sherlock gasped. He reached down and pinched the base of his cock. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, and after long moments, after one final exhale, his hips started a slow rhythm. 

Molly tilted her head and clung to his back, feeling the muscle move under her hands. Sherlock slowly settled his weight on her as he gave her push after push, piercing into the deep longing inside of her with every thrust. 

“Yes, Molly. Show me that little white throat,” Sherlock growled. “Show proper submission. I ought to bite you, mark you as mine. Mine, mine, mine.” Slowly, his mouth traveled to the place where her neck became her shoulder, and she felt the sting of his teeth on her skin. Moaning out her supplication, Molly bent her head to give him room, her eyes sliding closed as the pain went on and on. 

Sherlock broke free and pulled away, licking his lips. “Maybe someday I’ll show you my sterile kit, taste your blood. You indicated before that you would like to play vampire. I bet you taste delicious, almost as delicious as your cunt.” 

Molly shuddered under him, her hands on his hips, urging him to move inside her. “Oh, Sherlock. Please, harder.” There was a gathering coil of pressure in her belly, and each thrust of their coupling was pulling the coil tighter, tighter. “Fuck me harder, please, I’m close, Sherlock.”

“God, Molly. Your voice, I love your little voice….so sweet, so female, begging me.” Sherlock gave her heavy thrusts, hunching his back to rut into her more deeply. Groaning as if in pain, he looked away from her and bit into his knuckle, hard. 

Tears welling in the corners of her eyes, Molly pushed back against him as hard as she could, reaching after that lovely grinding heat between them, her nails digging into his back. “Just a little...harder, Sherlock. I can take it. Harder, make it hurt,” she sobbed. 

Sherlock choked out a desperate moan and seemed to let himself go, rutting into her body with abandon, staring down at her wildly, watching the tears streaming out of her eyes. There, there it was. Molly bucked, and screamed, and came, drunk on his skin, his sweat, the sweet anguish of his cock stretching her, the slick slide of his flesh against hers. Molly called out her completion as ecstasy shuddered from her womb out to her curling toes and exploded like a star behind her eyes. 

Sherlock’s moans rose in tone, more and more urgent; he grabbed at her wrists and slammed them back against the bed, arching his body into hers, and Molly felt him tremble inside her, spilling and spilling, as he held her down and roared out his release. 

When his grip on her wrists softened, Molly slipped free and pulled Sherlock down, wrapping his arms around his neck. “Oh, Sherlock,” she said, overcome. “My love, my darling.”

“Tell me you love me, Molly,” he begged, his weight on her like a blessing, his arms sliding under her body to hold her gently, to rock her tenderly from side to side. 

“I love you, Sherlock, I love you, you’re my heart,” Molly cried, sliding her fingers into his damp hair. “Always, for always.”

“My Molly, my own,” Sherlock sighed. “I love you...it’s true. I’d never have believed I could feel this, Molly.” Spent, Sherlock slipped out of her. He slid down to lay his cheek against her breast, curling his legs up to hers. “I could have never imagined this…”

Breathing, they rested together, his wonder brightening the morning air like sunlight.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline reminder: we are at the end of _His Last Vow,_ just before Christmas...

Molly stretched luxuriously across Sherlock’s rumpled bed, delighting in the deep satisfaction that was glowing throughout her body. Sherlock re-appeared from the bathroom at that moment and gave her an admonishing look. 

“You really shouldn’t wear clothes, Molly. I wish to register my continued disapproval of your ever being dressed.” He passed her a warm, damp flannel. 

“Do you know, Sherlock...that was the first time I’ve ever had unprotected sex,” Molly said, accepting the flannel and putting it to good use as Sherlock threw himself down beside her.

“I wish I could say the same,” Sherlock replied. “You have been taking your pills on schedule, yes?” 

“Yes, I have. Never missed one yet,” Molly told him. “I’ve been meaning to ask...we haven’t been using condoms for a while now, but you called for one last night. Why?”

“Indra’s house rules,” Sherlock said briefly. “And, I suppose, some lingering paranoia.” He shrugged. 

“You know, Sherlock,” Molly told him seriously, “even if you did make me pregnant...well, you know I wouldn’t have the baby.”

“You don’t want children, then.” He turned over to look into her face, his eyes unreadable. 

“I do want them,” Molly said, a little sadly. “It doesn’t seem very likely that I’ll be able to have them, though.”

Sherlock turned onto his back again. “You just informed me that you’d abort my child,” he said to the ceiling.

“Well, I don’t want to raise a baby all on my own.” His children would be brilliant and beautiful, Molly thought. It was rather too bad.

“You think I’d shirk my responsibility?” Sherlock said, rather sharply.

“Well, no. But I wouldn’t want to saddle you with something you’d consider just a responsibility,” Molly told him. “You must hate children, right?” 

“Children,” Sherlock said, considering. “I often find children more interesting than adults, and they’re nearly always smarter than one would think. I met a little boy whilst wrangling John’s side of the wedding party. You remember the page boy?”

“Archie, yes. How could I forget? ‘The invisible man with the invisible knife!’” 

“He surprised me. His leap of imagination ended up being a bigger help than I really care to admit to anyone else. I might have enjoyed having Archie around for coffee again, but unfortunately he was required by his mother to confess that I really did mean to give him a photograph of a headless nun, and now I’m _persona non grata.”_ He grimaced. “It’s getting to be a familiar sensation.”

Molly sighed inwardly at Sherlock’s reference to his own son, but he said nothing more, and she let it pass. After a moment, she turned over and smiled into his glowering face.

“You don’t serve coffee to children, Sherlock,” Molly said, pressing an admonishing finger to the tip of his nose. “Please tell me you didn’t give Archie coffee when he came over.”

Sherlock grabbed her wrist and pulled her finger away, irritated. “I’d made a pot for the other ushers, and he asked for some. One ought to be courteous to one’s adversaries. And I can’t believe you’re more concerned about the coffee than about the headless nun.”

“Oh...well, not _more_ concerned, but....I suppose most people aren’t used to cadavers and that.” Molly frowned, turning onto her side. “Perhaps I’d make a terrible mother after all.”

Behind her, Sherlock sighed into her hair. His large hand slipped over her body to caress her belly, then traveled up to her breasts, her neck. That rich voice rumbled into life, and Molly closed her eyes to thank whatever good fortune had led her to this moment.

“Molly. I was rather impatient, before. Are you sore at all?”

“A little,” Molly admitted. “Though I’ve a bit of an ache in my lower back that’s just as troublesome.” 

“Does it resemble a menstrual cramp? It will be related. Slight pelvic organ displacement, referred pain. I’ll fetch you some paracetamol.” Sherlock bounced up and strolled into the kitchen, casually and gloriously naked. She heard the sounds of rummaging, and Sherlock returned with two tablets and a glass of water. 

“I need to take good care of you,” he informed her, “because we have all the day ahead of us, and..” He sat and leaned over her, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “...I’d forgotten how very much I enjoy penetrating a sweet, silky pussy. You’ve unleashed the beast, my beautiful Molly, and it won’t stay sated for long.”

Molly gulped down the painkiller with a rather harder swallow than she’d meant. 

“Drink all of the water, Molly,” Sherlock instructed, watching her carefully. “And then you need to use the bathroom. Are you prone to urinary tract infections?”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” Molly said as she put down the empty glass. “That was quite a transition.”

“Problem?” Sherlock frowned and tilted his head. “I did not change the subject.”

Molly put a hand to her brow and laughed, while Sherlock huffed in annoyance. She pulled him toward her for a kiss.

“I appreciate your taking good care of me, my love,” Molly said in his ear, savouring the phrase and the right she’d won to use it. 

“I take care of all my toys,” Sherlock smirked, then hesitated. “I don’t mean toy. I don’t intend to trivialise or belittle you. I am sorry. I’m new at this, but I am trying, my Molly. I’m not sure I can ever get my mouth around...sweetie, though.” The corners of his mouth turned down.

“You’ve been saying ‘my Molly’ for a good while now, you know. It’s lovely to hear.” 

“It is? Well, good,” Sherlock said. “Because it’s extremely true. You are mine. But you really do need to use the bathroom.” He pointed at the door. 

Molly pressed her lips together to keep from laughing as she hastened to obey. 

When done, Molly turned to the bathtub and turned the shower on. She looked at the door as the water warmed up, half-hoping he would join her, but the door remained closed, and Molly savoured a moment alone with her thoughts under the hot water. 

So...she and Sherlock had declared, or admitted in his case, their mutual affection. She still couldn’t quite believe it. Wincing as the hot water hit the bite mark on her neck, Molly wondered just what it would mean for them, going forward. How would it be for her to have a...boyfriend?...who wasn’t exactly a wholesome, stay-at-home type? Point of fact, Sherlock seemed to land himself in hazardous situations on a monthly basis. Could her heart take the stress? 

Molly’s heart turned cold in her chest as she remembered Sherlock’s words in the bedroom. What if he did die? What if one day, she got a call...

Nothing could be worse. She couldn’t think about it. Molly shut off the water, pressed water out of her hair, and stuck a hand beyond the shower curtain, groping for the pile of towels. 

Her hand encountered a familiar chest instead; lean muscle and sparse hair. Sherlock’s laugh rumbled. 

“Did you think you’d escaped, little Molly?” 

He swept the shower curtain aside and threw a towel against her body, then lifted her over his shoulder as she gave a delighted shriek. All morbid thoughts fled her mind as he kicked the bedroom door open. 

He tossed her laughing onto the bed, but his grin turned into a grimace. “Ugh, sore,” he said, pressing a hand to his surgical scar. “I really can’t keep doing that. You make me forget to be careful, Molly. Naughty, naughty thing...You need punishment, but a good hard spanking may need to wait for the moment.”

He tilted his head at her where she half-lay on the bed, beaming up at him, still dewy with water and tangled in the towel. “What shall I do,” Sherlock said slowly, running one finger along his bottom lip, “to punish you?”

That mouth soon stretched into a wicked smile. “I’ve thought of the perfect plan.” Crouching down, Sherlock slid a box out from under the bed. “Close your eyes.”

And with a flutter of her eyelids, Molly’s vision fell away. Sherlock was rummaging in the box, and she could feel him placing mysterious items on the mattress beside her. Just as quickly, he was finished, and Molly felt a gentle hand on the side of her head. “I’m going to blindfold you, Molly.”

She smelled the leather of the blindfold before it touched her face. Sherlock was attaching it at several points behind her head, and Molly reached up to feel multiple layers of soft suede, splaying out over her eyes like petals. 

“No touching,” his voice snapped right into her ear, and Molly jumped, excitement tingling down her spine. “On your belly this time. Hands over your head.”

As Molly shifted, she felt him lay the towel flat under her head and shoulders. “All this wet hair, Molly. Dripping all over my bed!” Sherlock’s voice rose in outrage. “Oh, you’re in for it.”

Molly felt his hands on her wrists, pulling them out straight beyond her head. Her wrists were being wrapped with soft cloth, and there was the winding pressure of rope, binding her wrists together. 

“You know I’ll never be one to bring you flowers or boxes of chocolate,” Sherlock purred near her face. “If you are so reckless as to give your heart to Sherlock Holmes, you’ll need to forego all such trappings, because I will demonstrate my ardor in my own way. I’ll use all my prettiest knots and wraps on your flesh, my Molly.” She felt the mattress moving just a little underneath her arms. “All the loveliest, most intricate bonds I can contrive, to truss you to my bed and take you any way I please.” Molly couldn’t help squirming a little as his voice caressed her, pooling her desire down between her legs.

His fingertips ghosted from her tied wrists down her arms. “Test your bonds, Molly. If all is well, give me your safeword.” 

Safe, he was keeping her safe. Molly pulled at the ropes. He’d laced them together in a way that was firm but still kept most of the pressure off the insides of her wrists. Molly wished she could see the bonds; she knew they would be exquisite. “Skull,” she said. 

His fingertips traveled across her shoulders; she shivered as he brushed the nape of her neck, her ear. Feathery touches on her face; his warm fingers smelled faintly of latex. 

“Up on your knees,” he said, slipping a guiding hand under the hinge of her hip. 

Awkwardly, with Sherlock’s help, Molly clambered into a kneeling position. He hadn’t left her any slack in the rope, so Molly’s elbows remained on the bed, forcing her arse up high. 

The bed dipped as Sherlock drew close beside her; Molly felt firm hands on her breasts, slowly kneading her flesh, the fingertips pinching and tugging at her nipples. Oh, she could feel the violin calluses on his left hand…

“Your body, your breasts, Molly….How many times, in the lab, have I stopped myself from ripping a button off your work blouse and shoving my hand inside?” he whispered. “Maybe even leave one of these behind, after I had done touching you.” And Molly felt a sweet pinch, first on one nipple, then the other. He took his hands away, and the pressure on her nipples remained, the weight of the little clamps intensifying the sensation. Molly gave a thin thread of a moan.

“Yes, I’d thought of doing a great many things to you, Molly. In fact I’m rather proud of the restraint I showed, that first night at Bart’s. For example…”

A finger slipped between her lips and inside her mouth. 

“Suck my finger, Molly. Get it very wet.” 

Molly could feel her brows turning up in her anxiety as she curled her tongue around that invading finger, sucking away the fine salt on his skin as she sought to coat it with wetness. 

“Careful, Molly,” Sherlock chuckled beside her. “The sight of you suckling my finger is really rather stimulating, and I’m unbearably hard already. Unless you’d rather I come in your mouth…”

No. Molly needed him to penetrate her. She released his finger. 

“Mmm. Hungry little pussy, then. Bad, bad girl,” he said caressingly.

Sherlock’s voice was receding behind her, and then his hand was on her bottom, squeezing each buttock, stroking into the cleft. And there was that wet finger, circling her tiniest hole, tapping it lightly. Molly pulled against her bonds and ducked her head, vainly attempting to hide her flaming cheeks. 

“Still so very innocent, my Molly. So shy when I touch your little pink opening.” The questing finger pressed into the center, prying at the muscle. “You’re so exquisitely sensitive here. Do you know that every time I do _this,”_ he said, removing his finger and tapping it back onto the little pucker, “your pussy makes the prettiest little throb? Lovely.”

She felt his other hand on her vulva then, circling on her wet flesh with the pads of his fingers before reaching to tickle her clit. Molly breathed out the sound of her pleasure in a low whimper. 

“Yes, so very sensitive. And I adore this part of you, my Molly. Oh yes, and you’ll soon learn to serve me in every way.” The finger at her bottom was gone, but was swiftly replaced by his tongue, twisting gently, obscenely, against her arsehole. 

Molly cried out, then, the delicate sensation swelling with the molten heat of her shame. Oh, his filthy mouth, laving, tickling; oh, that clever tongue, prying sweetly inside her bottom as his fingers swirled against her pussy. Molly made high noises in her throat, straining against the ropes on her wrist, caught between wanting him to stop and begging him for more, more. 

She knew which she really craved when he broke away from her, and she felt a stab of despair. She lifted her bottom in supplication, but he only laughed at her plight. “Oh, you’re so wicked.”

He stepped to her side, and Molly felt a heavy metallic coolness against her cheek, her lips. Sherlock was sliding something against her face.

“You remember this little delight, don’t you, sweet girl. This is one of my favourites. Oh, it’s so exciting.” 

And there, the crack of the lubricant bottle, and Molly’s shame broke and fell away. 

“Oh, Sherlock, please. I need it. Put it inside me. Please, Sherlock.” The nipple clamps were really starting to burn now, adding a hot taste of pain to every moment.

“You want me to put this...where?” Sherlock said quietly. “Tell me.”

“In my bottom. Put it in my arse. Please, Sherlock.” 

“As Indra loves to say...I’m ever your slave. My beautiful Molly.” And she felt the coolness of the heavy metal plug against her arsehole, stretching, violating her sweetly. 

“You’re so much more relaxed this time, darling girl,” he told her, seating the plug fully. “I’m such a good master, training you so well. I think I’ll master you some more.”

And Sherlock moved behind her. She felt him settle himself on the bed, and then his cock was sliding against her pussy, not entering her but parting her lips with his length. 

Molly was beside herself. The plug dragged at her, warming quickly with her body heat but still a cool contrast to the burning of her pussy as he stroked her wetness with his cock. The nipple clamps throbbed, and the blindfold tormented her, denying her sight and amplifying all other sensations. Molly wanted to come, needed to come, but she ached for his cock moving inside her, filling her belly. 

“Please, Sherlock!” she bit out, then, before he could taunt her for more detail, amended, “Please put your cock in my pussy. I need you.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sherlock said, a smile in his voice. “I just love doing this. I could do it all day.”

“Please, please, Sherlock. Please, sir. I’ll do anything. I need your cock.” 

“Oh, I already know you’re prepared to do anything. Anything I require,” he told her, stilling his movements entirely. Molly keened desperately, pushing her hips back against him. “Oh, look at you. Sweet little beast in heat, just aching to be bred.” 

Molly rubbed her cheek against the crumpled sheet. “Please. Please. Please.” She would burst, she would fly apart, so swollen, hurting, she needed him.

“Oh, very well,” Sherlock purred, and Molly felt him positioning himself at her entrance. “But only because you’ve been such a good girl, and because the alpha male in me is absolutely insisting I leave you with a belly full of my come.” 

None too gently, he entered her, sheathing himself completely, and Molly howled into the mattress just as if he’d given her a hard spank, writhing against the delicious stretch, the aching fullness. He settled into a leisurely rhythm, and with every thrust, the plug moved inside her bottom, pushing deeper. The clamps burned on her nipples as the impact of his hips started them swinging.

His fingers were on the handle of the plug. “Experimentation, lovely Molly. What will happen if I do...this?” And thrusting all the while, he tugged on the plug, coaxing it out of her bottom, then popping it back inside. 

Molly’s vision flashed white, and she bucked, her cheeks blazing, close, so close to coming. One nipple clamp fell away with her violent movements, and the other soon followed, leaving her nipples enflamed with sensation. She heard herself choking out her cries; he was holding her there, circling the abyss, giving her slow thrusts. Again, his hand on the plug. 

“I think I’ll force you to your orgasm now, love of my life,” he said. His words reverberated in her heart as the cadence of his fucking increased, until Molly was lost in the sensation of slick force and speed. His hand was on the plug, and once more, he moved it in and out of her bottom, and the fingertips of his other hand licked at her clit. “At my command. Come...now.” 

And Molly did, falling and falling, heat unfolding from her core as she broke open like a flower bud under the hot sun. She felt her body shaking, collapsing onto the bed, Sherlock moving with her, his hands supporting her hips, fucking her through her ecstasy. 

When she finally lay flat on the damp sheets, she heard Sherlock growling behind her, biting out, “Oh...tight.” She felt him settle his knees on either side of her hips, and then he was piercing her deeply, giving her cruel thrusts as he pulsed his own orgasm into her cunt. 

His growls released into panting sighs, and he settled himself down onto her body, his weight on the plug wringing one more sweet spasm out of her.

“Molly, Molly,” he breathed in her ear. “God, I love you, Molly. It’s burning in me. It’s frightening me. But I won’t turn away from this, I could never, don’t want to. I want all the pain of it, I want it all.”

“Besides,” he continued, and Molly smiled to hear the chuckle in his voice, “you are such a sweet amusement, my Molly, my love. You make the funniest noises.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to liathwen, onedayer, aberlioness, and Tumblr's faye-tale; valiant betas and Britpickers all.

Molly lay alone on Sherlock’s bed, propping her head on her hand and listening to the sounds of the violin drifting in from the sitting room. She’d woken from her doze a half-hour before when she’d heard him talking on the phone again, his tones much more measured and formal than when he’d spoken to John. He’d left the bedroom door open, so she hadn’t worried too much about what she could overhear. 

“...Pains me on principle to admit it, Indra, but you were quite correct,” she’d heard as she’d arisen from sleep. “I see that now, damn it. Yes, I told her….She was leaving, and I couldn’t bear it. Yes, I’m well aware, but at least I understood. After all this time. Ha, perhaps. Might be a poor idea for legal reasons, but it would offer her some protection in the event of….No, nothing else has come to light. I told you, I’ll deal with it. Yes. And thank you. Thank you again.” 

He’d rung off, and Molly had heard nothing else from the sitting room for a long time. Then Sherlock had taken up his violin and played a few wandering, uncertain notes that wove their way into her light doze. He’d thrown the violin down soon afterward, then she heard him furiously tapping at a keyboard, then pacing, pacing. Then the violin again, playing a slow, lilting tune, a waltz, that seemed vaguely familiar, as if she’d heard it only once before. 

The song continued, and Molly was happy to be alone for a while, after all the intensity and emotion. Her back hurt a bit, and of course, she was a little sore between her legs from his vigorous attentions. She stretched out on his bed. How long had she dozed? By the light, it seemed to be late afternoon. She’d already texted her neighbor to ask her to feed Toby, so that was taken care of. She still wasn’t sure how to answer Beth’s text, though. 

Her appointment for the IUD insertion was tomorrow morning, but Sherlock had already come inside her twice without much apparent anxiety. Was her birth control pill enough for him, then? It seemed another little conversation was in order. She’d get herself a drink of water, and join him in the sitting room. 

When Molly trotted out to the kitchen, Sherlock was sitting on the back of his leather armchair, eyeing her soberly as he continued the sweet waltz. She joined him with her glass of water, settling into the chair she would always think of as John’s and tucking up her feet. 

Breaking off in the middle of a phrase, Sherlock lowered the violin. “Molly. What do you think of getting married?”

She gaped at him. Of all the things she’d ever expect to hear him say…

“I’m not proposing,” he continued hastily. “I’d just like to know what you think of the institution. In general.” 

Oh. Well, that raised some confusing emotions. “Ah, I think of marriage as a desirable state. Because it means commitment, a partnership.” She hesitated. “Something permanent to build a life on.” 

“Permanent,” Sherlock repeated. “But it’s not, is it. People tire of each other, or are betrayed. Or one party dies, and the other is left alone.” 

“Everyone dies, Sherlock,” Molly said sadly. “Husbands and wives come into my morgue every day, both the dead ones and those they’ve left behind. Every marriage ends, Sherlock. One way or another.”

“People fool themselves when they make their vows. There’s no forever after. No permanence. It could all be taken away in a moment.” Sherlock was looking into the cold grate. 

“But there’s now,” Molly said softly. “Now is all we really have, you know. All we can be sure of. We live for such a short time….”

A silence rose between them. Molly’s heart was beating fast, and her brain was awhirl. Just that morning, Sherlock had accused her of sentimentality and scorned her words of love, and now he was talking about marriage. In general, of course. As an institution. She let out a frustrated sigh. 

Sherlock tapped the violin’s bow on his shoulder, then jumped out of his chair. “I’m hungry,” he announced. “Put your clothes on, Molly. We’re going out for an early dinner.”

“Um. My clothes are dirty, Sherlock. Hadn’t we better order something in?” She’d worn those clothes all day yesterday, and could barely stand the idea of wearing them home, much less going out to eat in them. 

“You slept, I didn’t. I threw them in Mrs Hudson’s washing machine and then into the tumble dryer. They should be dry by now, or nearly so.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Molly cried. “Not my jumper too?” She jumped up and made for the door. 

“Ah...yes. Was that...not good?” Sherlock bounded to the kitchen and snagged a keyring from a plastic bucket full of them, then trailed down the stairs after her. He keyed open Mrs Hudson’s door for her, and Molly rushed in, tearing open the tumble dryer. She pulled out the poor jumper, now toddler-sized, and held it up to her chest, giving Sherlock a look.

“Ah. Sorry.” Sherlock scratched his head with the key, flustered. “I...think I’ve got a jumper somewhere you can borrow. Sorry, sorry. You should save that one, though, in case we have a child.”

Molly froze, and all the colour drained from Sherlock’s face. 

He started stammering. “N-not that you…ah. Damn it. Give that to me, Molly. I’ll throw it away.” He held out his hand.

“No,” she said quietly. “I’ll decide what to do with it. It’s my jumper, Sherlock.” And just like that, Molly knew she would cancel her appointment the next day. They might not ever have a child, might not even stay together, but she’d be damned if she would have a birth control device implanted in her body for the sake of a man who could not seem to make up his mind.

Sherlock said nothing, but quirked one corner of his mouth as he bent to pull the rest of her hot clothes out of the tumble dryer. Molly handed him the dressing gown and bent to pull on her knickers and bra---slightly mangled by its trip through the tumble dryer---followed by socks, trousers, and blouse. “I’ll just wear my coat out, Sherlock. I should be fine.”

“We won’t go far,” he said. “Get your shoes.”

Once Sherlock had closed the outer door of 221B behind them, the two of them set off down the street. London was a little warmer today, and the sun was still bright between the buildings. 

So much had happened since the last time she’d passed that black door, Molly thought, glancing behind her. Then she remembered a question she’d had earlier. 

“Sherlock, where’s the Jag?” she asked him, trotting a little to keep up with his long strides. 

“I always hire one when I drive down to Indra’s,” he replied, peering down at her. “It’s rather a long way, as you noticed, and I prefer to enjoy the time. We returned it early this morning, but you were mostly asleep for that, I suppose.”

“Oh,” Molly panted. “You go to Indra’s often? Sherlock, slow down.” She took his hand and held it. 

“Not...so often,” Sherlock said, glancing down at their joined hands in surprise. Then he stood a little taller with a small smile, glancing furtively around at passersby, looking for all the world like a schoolboy proud to be holding hands with a girl in public for the first time. Perhaps he was, Molly thought tenderly. She walked a little closer to him.

“We really shouldn’t, you know,” he said, still smiling, as they turned down the Marylebone Road. “Hold hands in public. I have too many enemies.”

Molly grasped the lapel of his coat and pulled him down for a quick, hard snog. “There,” she told him as he blinked and gave a little gasp. “That’s how much I care about hiding how I feel. I love Sherlock Holmes,” she called out, turning her head down the road and raising her voice a little, before looking him in the eye once more. “And there again. For all the world to hear.”

For once, Sherlock had nothing to say, but he was grinning, and his cheeks were red from more than the cold. They walked on, and Molly beamed with the joy of touching him so deeply, simply by openly showing her love for him. 

Sherlock soon guided her inside a small Italian restaurant. After the waiter had taken their orders, Sherlock pulled out his phone. 

“Text from Mycroft,” he said, frowning at the screen. “He wishes me to inform you that the man in the white suit is currently on an aeroplane to Australia. He’ll be settled in a small town some way north of Perth, where he will remain, under supervision.”

“My god,” Molly said, glancing out the window at the darkening street. “You don’t mess about, do you?”

“We do not,” Sherlock affirmed. He glanced down at his phone again, then up at her. 

“Oh, go on,” Molly told him. “Send your texts. I’m sure you have things to attend to. You know. Sherlock things.” She waved a hand vaguely. Sherlock gave her a crooked smile and bent his head to the screen.

As Sherlock tapped away, happily in his element, Molly enjoyed her spaghetti Bolognese and watched him fondly. In the space of fifteen minutes, Sherlock had called Detective Inspector Lestrade about an earlier text and demanded further details and photos, upon receipt of which he ranted about the incompetence of the forensics team but nonetheless solved the case from his seat, eyeing her smugly to make sure she’d witnessed his feat. Sherlock’s pasta had only just begun to cool when he rang off, picked up his fork, and dug in with enthusiasm. 

As for her own business, Molly had cancelled her doctor appointment for the following morning, then replied to Beth’s text to tell her that she’d done so. Of course, Beth asked for an explanation, and Molly sketched out the eventful day to her friend.

Molly tapped out finally. _I told him I loved him, and eventually he told me the same. We’re together, really and truly._

_You’ll have to tell me the whole story soon. I’m happy for you, Molls, but take care of yourself. You know best, but don’t forget who he is._

_I won’t,_ Molly replied. _Believe me. Love you, Beth. Talk to you soon._

****

When they left the restaurant, Sherlock carefully took her hand again, and they walked slowly back to Baker Street under a windless dusting of snow. 

In the sitting room, Molly stood for a moment, uncertain of whether she had better take her leave and let Sherlock get on with things. She’d spent all of the last twenty-four hours in his company, after all. But Sherlock, it seemed, had other notions in his curly head. 

“Stay with me, Molly. Please,” he said in her ear. He unwound her scarf, pushed her coat off her shoulders. “I know you have work tomorrow, but don’t go home. Not yet. I want you,” he said, his breath hot against her neck. “I need to take you again.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Molly said, biting her lip as she swayed against the warmth inside his coat. “I’d love to, but...I’m really rather...sore.” But she couldn’t keep herself from running her hands down his chest, and up again, feeling the muscle under his shirt but carefully avoiding his surgery site. She laid her head briefly against him; his heart was beating wildly. 

There was a pause, and then Sherlock took her chin gently in his hand and looked into her eyes. “We could...if you would allow it….”

“What, Sherlock?” Why was he hesitating?

“We could...try something new,” he finished, a gleam in his eye, and Molly’s cheeks grew hot. 

“You mean...in my bottom?” she whispered, barely able to form the words. 

“If you dislike the idea, then it’s off the table, of course,” Sherlock said, stepping back and taking off his coat and suit jacket. “But I should make it clear that I know exactly how to make the experience comfortable...and pleasurable. I bring a certain...empathy. In short, I could do for you what was once done for me,” Sherlock told her, his hand stroking her hair.

“Done for you?” Molly blinked, then understood. 

“Yes, Molly. Though I’ve been dominant all my life, I did have a master once,” Sherlock said. “He noticed me when I was younger and so angry...saw that I needed to taste submission to become a better dominant. And he gave me those experiences. He lifted me from the bad place I was in, and taught me...everything. He keeps teaching me. I owe him so much.”

“Indra,” Molly whispered, and Sherlock nodded. He gathered her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. 

“Whenever you feel ready. It certainly does not have to be tonight.”

“How does it...feel?” Molly asked quietly, her face aflame against his chest.

“For you, it would be...intense. Somewhat uncomfortable, initially. Both wrong and right, in a deep delicious way. Sensual. Incredibly intimate. That was my experience,” Sherlock told her. “I came to crave it from him. The things he’d say to me while he was penetrating me….” He trembled against her. 

“Oh, Sherlock,” Molly said, nearly overwhelmed by the image. “Yes, let’s...let’s try it. Please, sir,” she said, giving him his master’s title as she looked shyly up into his eyes. 

“Ah, my Molly. If we’re to do this, there will be no ropes, no spankings, no rough handling. Your first time will be very slow. Very gentle. But don’t worry,” he purred. “You’ll inevitably feel vulnerable. Very submissive to me. The nature of the act...I’ll still be every inch your master, my little plaything.”

****

Ten minutes later, Molly sat naked on Sherlock’s bed, shivering a little with apprehension. He’d asked her a few uncomfortable questions with the detached air of a medical doctor, then when her halting answers proved satisfactory, started to set up the bedroom. She saw soft towels laid out over the bed, lubricant, body oil, condoms, rubber gloves, wet wipes, a damp flannel in a bowl. If Molly had realised how much kit was required for this particular act…

Sherlock stood before her, naked and clearly eager to begin. She wouldn’t think too much about the size of him. No. Oh god.

“Let’s just lie down together to start,” Sherlock said, moving toward her. He settled behind her on the bed, curling his body around her tense one. He leaned over and murmured in her ear.

“Molly. Listen very closely to me. If at any time you do not wish to continue, simply tell me so. We can stop this play for a minute, or for the night, or forever. I won’t be angry with you. If you understand, give me your safe word.”

“Skull,” Molly whispered. 

“One thing more,” Sherlock said, so softly against her hair. “I promised I’d keep you safe, always. In this matter, I need you to be completely honest with yourself, and with me. If all goes well, this should not be painful. There will be unusual feelings, some momentary discomfort, perhaps, but no true pain. Molly, do you promise to tell me if something hurts?”

“I promise,” Molly said, closing her eyes. 

“Then down to business. Lie on your belly. I’m going to rub your back for now.” 

A little surprised, Molly obeyed, and soon felt him spreading warm oil on her skin. Long minutes passed as Sherlock massaged her, his technique somewhat inexpert but very pleasant all the same. His hands swept down to cup her arse, then wandered sensuously over her breasts, her limbs, her belly, anointing her skin with long, gliding strokes until Molly’s tension softened. He touched her slowly, as if he had all the time in the world to soothe every inch of her. 

Some time after Molly had melted bonelessly into the bed, Sherlock wiped his hands well. “Ready to continue?” he murmured.

“Mmm. Fine,” she replied, blinking sleepily. 

“Then come back up on your side and pull your top knee up a bit toward your chest. Good girl,” he said, lying closely behind her. Soon she felt his arm circling her, his cool fingers threading into the lacy hair between her legs, then reaching down to touch her pussy. Sherlock whispered to her, his lips close to her ear. 

“How I love possessing you, my Molly,” he breathed. “I adore the sight of you now, cuddled here against me, just waiting for what I’ll do to you. I want to open you...to slide inside your body, to penetrate to your soul.” His fingers dragged along her wet folds, so slowly that Molly whimpered and trembled, aching for him to touch her clit. 

“You awaken the darkest desires in me, my sweet little thing,” he continued, laying his head atop hers and stroking his slightly rough cheek over her silky one. “Right now, at this moment, I dearly long to pull your hair until you cry. Hold you down and spank your arse, really spank my fill of you, hard and fast and merciless, bring you over the edge of what you ever thought you could bear…” 

His whisper against her ear was growing faster, and fierce, even as his hand stroked her pussy gently. “My fingers are just itching to slap this darling little cunt until you’re stinging and swollen and aching for my cock. I want to restrain you, truss you in every bit of rope I own, suspend you from the ceiling and lick away your pretty tears of despair. This is the shape of my longing for you. I crave your pain, your humble acceptance, your complete surrender to everything, everything. Oh, Molly, why aren’t you afraid of me? Sometimes I’m afraid of myself, of what I could do to slake my desire if I were not on the side of the angels.”

“Because I trust you, Sherlock…” Molly whispered. “I know you. You won’t ever harm me.” She arched her back against him, pushing her clit against his fingertips.

“I won’t ever harm you, my love. That is true. And soon, soon I’ll do all those things to you and far more besides. But tonight,” he said, so softly, “tonight I intend to touch you deeply where you’ve never been touched, penetrate your most private, secret place.” 

He took his hand from her pussy, and Molly heard the snap of a latex glove and the crack of a lubricant bottle as he continued to whisper in her ear. 

“I want to watch you struggle, just a little, with the knowledge of what will happen to you. Yes, I see your fear. Fear of the unknown. But I won’t allow you the comfort of shyness, because before I am through with you, you’ll be begging me shamelessly for more. It begins here...when I tease you slowly.” And there, there were his fingers, anointing the furled opening in the cleft of her buttocks with cool, thick lubricant. 

He was tickling her little hole, making her quiver, playing with her instinctive reaction to any touch to her anus, usually so protected. But here she was, obediently opening to him, submitting to the gentle prying of his fingertip. 

“Push out for me, love. Just a little…” And as Molly obeyed, Sherlock’s first joint slipped inside her. He wiggled it slowly as Molly squirmed a little. 

“Now, Molly, do you know what I want you to do for me?” She could her the smile in his voice before he continued. “I want you to touch yourself. Show me what you do when you’re alone, and thinking of me.” 

Oh, and for some reason that was almost as difficult for her as letting him touch her bottom. But Molly let her hand drift down, down, until she was stroking herself with her own, expert touch. And with the pleasure she stirred in herself, it became simpler to relax while his finger was slipping carefully inside her. She sighed aloud. 

“Yes, it’s easier now, isn’t it,” he whispered, withdrawing for a moment to add more lubricant. “All the better. I’ll add another finger now, Molly. Keep working that little clit for me. Good girl.”

Two fingers...was a lot more than one. Molly felt herself tensing against the intrusion, and breathed deeply, willing herself to loosen her muscles, and after a moment the discomfort passed. 

“You’re doing beautifully, my Molly,” Sherlock whispered. “I’m so proud of you, taking them inside you like this.” His fingers scissored in her, so gently. “And I can see you arching your back. Tell me, Molly. Tell me how it feels.”

“Strange,” she murmured. “Slippery. Very...naughty.”

“And you do adore feeling naughty, don’t you. Imagine how you’ll feel when I slide my cock up your little bottom.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” she moaned. “I never thought...but I want it. I want you to. Do it now.” Before she lost her nerve….

“Not yet,” he breathed, inhaling deeply in her hair and moving down to place a line of kisses on her neck. “Not yet.”

Even more lubricant, and a third finger, and now there was a deep pressure, a feeling of being filled. Different to the feeling of a full pussy. So sweetly shameful, so wicked. God, she would love to come like this. But she slowed her fingers...she wanted him inside her. 

“So aroused,” Sherlock whispered. He pushed up against her back, sliding against her oiled skin. His fingers slipping in and out of her bottom, his breath hot in her hair. “Are you ready, Molly? Ready to take me?”

“Yes,” Molly panted. “I want to feel you.”

He snapped off the glove, then reached for a condom and rolled it on. Long moments were spent coating himself and her with more of the thick lubricant. Then, finally, she felt him position himself against her opening. 

“Push back on my cock, Molly,” he murmured. “Slowly. You’re very relaxed...it shouldn’t take much.”

Molly angled her hips and carefully leaned back into the pressure. It was too slippery...She felt herself opening….and all at once, the head of his cock popped inside her. 

“Ah, ah,” Molly breathed, pressing her mouth tightly. This was different to his fingers. A little burning in the stretch… “A bit of pain, Sherlock…” 

“Sharp pain?” he asked quietly, and when she shook her head, he said, “Would you like me out?”

“No,” Molly said. “It’s getting better.” A moment passed, and she sighed. “Yes. I’m comfortable now.”

“Would you like to push back on me, or shall I press into you?” Sherlock asked. 

“You...into me,” Molly replied, and Sherlock carefully turned them both so she was on her belly. Slowly, slowly, he penetrated her arse, adding another dollop of lubricant with every inch of his hard shaft that slid inside. 

For Molly, the passage of time became fluid, her whole world focused down to the place where Sherlock’s cock was slipping slowly past her tight ring of muscle and deep into her rectum. Pressure, incredible fullness. A twinge---Sherlock froze at her little gasp---but Molly continued to breathe deeply, and whispered to him to keep going. And finally, finally, Molly felt the plump cushion of his bollocks pressing against her pussy. 

“Ah, Molly,” Sherlock murmured as Molly moaned under him. “You’re so tight. So very warm inside. Are you being a good little girl and touching yourself?” 

“Yes, sir,” Molly whimpered, her busy fingers trapped underneath her. Now that his cock was firmly planted in her bottom, tension and need was starting to shiver through her whole body. She pushed her arse back against him, just a little. “Please, sir. Move inside me.”

“You’re so eager for it,” Sherlock said against her ear, the quiet intensity of his near-whisper sending thrills down her spine. “You’re such an excellent little pet, taking me up your arse so willingly. Look at you,” he said wonderingly as Molly quivered under him. “Wanting.”

“Please, Sherlock, I need it.” She was tilting her hips up as far as they would go.

“Ah, that’s lovely. Beg me again, little Molly. I love the sound of your voice pleading for me.”

“Please, please, sir, I want you to fuck me. My bottom. I’m being good, I’ve been so good for you. Please.” Her face flamed with embarrassment at the filthy words, at the urgency of her need.

“When my sweet little slut begs me like that, how can I refuse?” Sherlock kissed her neck tenderly and began to roll his hips leisurely against her arse. 

Molly’s eyes slid closed. The strange fullness in her bottom, the sensation of hugging his cock tightly...the warmth of him draped over her...The feeling of serving him, serving his desires with her body, and being directed by him at every step...Even when she’d told him to pause, she’d been obeying his earlier orders. And now she was trembling underneath his slow, sensual thrusts, helplessly offering up her most delicate, private place for his pleasure….

She’d never been so deep underneath. Never felt his dominance covering her so completely. Even the shame she’d felt in submitting to him with her arse...that shame had become so sweet…

She had to tell him; he had to know what she was feeling. 

“Sherlock,” she cried softly, her lips brushing the sheet. “I’m yours. All yours.” She reached her hands back, held her buttocks open for him, inviting him deeper. “I’ll do anything you ask. Anything you can imagine. For you. All for you. You’re...you’re everything,” she sobbed. 

Some part of her knew that she was drifting into a new state of mind, where nothing mattered but to serve him, adore him, belong to him. But she knew she was safe with Sherlock, and so she let herself sink into the sensation, drifting ever downward into this dark, warm place.

“Oh, Molly,” Sherlock sighed into her ear. “You’re utterly mine. My sweet girl. You feel me, I know you do. Every inch of me, my whole body, while I’m violating you like this.” He pressed into her harder, faster, excruciatingly deeper. “You please me, Molly, so profoundly. Your submission...my power over you...such an ecstasy.”

“I’m going to come, sir, please sir,” Molly babbled. “Oh, please.” 

“Slap yourself. Lightly,” he growled, pulling her hips up with his hands to give her room. “Then caress. Then slap. Until you come. Until you come.” 

Moaning aloud, Molly obeyed him, giving her cunt sharp little taps between soothing strokes against her clit, her other hand still pulling one buttock to the side. Sherlock was groaning above her---his cock swelling in her bottom---

Then she was there, her hips shuddering up into his, and she was lost, falling into a delirium of pleasure that coruscated like the red-black behind her eyes. She dimly felt the soft glow of pain in her scalp and pressure in her bottom---he had seized a fistful of her hair as he lost control inside of her. His voice was calling her name from far away, calling her his own, his darling girl, his good, good girl. Molly smiled; was she dreaming it? Did it matter? She was his. It was the only truth. 

An uncountable time passed, and Molly floated. Sherlock was kissing her hair, her neck; at some point he slipped gently out of her and pulled her onto her side again. A cool, damp flannel was tucked carefully between her buttocks, so soothing. And he was enfolding her in the curve of his body, his fingers combing through her hair. 

When Molly came back to herself, she turned to face him. Such fierce tenderness in those eyes that had once regarded her so coldly. 

“I owe you an apology, Molly,” he said softly, touching her face. “I said before that I would not treat you roughly, that I would not be cruel. But I pulled your hair.” 

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” Molly replied, a dreamy smile curving her lips. “I was...floating, then. I was so...I felt so submissive to you. It was lovely.”

“You’re a wonder, Molly.” Sherlock told her, his hand on her cheek. “Sleep here with me, tonight. Please. After today, after everything, I need to keep you with me. So much lost time.”

“Well, if you put it like that,” Molly said, yawning, “I suppose I could…”

“Need to see your face in the morning,” Sherlock said, almost inaudibly. “So I can be sure it wasn’t a dream…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also on Tumblr, come play! I'm v nice. And I'm about to call for ficlet prompts... ;)


	15. Chapter 15

The chime on Molly’s phone sounded early; she needed to be at St Bart’s for the board meeting at eight o’clock. But Molly was already awake, and Sherlock was inside her.

He had been watching her from the foot of the bed when her eyes had opened in the thin grey half-light of predawn. Though they had fallen asleep together quite early in the evening, she couldn’t tell what had wakened her---maybe some sound from the city outside, or perhaps the pressure of his eyes as he sat cross-legged, his back against the footboard, staring at her unsmilingly. 

After a moment, she’d pushed back the duvet and crawled to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. “It’s Christmas Eve,” she’d said briefly. He had hummed an acknowledgment, then looked past her to the window, where a few flakes of snow were blowing past the window. 

Then he’d abruptly pushed her down onto her back, opened her legs, and licked hungrily at her pussy. Molly had lain quietly, her fingers working slowly in his hair, her eyes still heavy with sleep as he’d kindled a glow in her belly. He’d crawled on top of her then, and she’d pulled him down to slide her mouth against his lips, rosy and slick with her fluids. Entering her with a sigh, he moved slowly, his hand at her cheek. 

Now Sherlock reached over to her chiming phone where it lay on the bedside table and swiped the alarm to silence. Turning back to her, he buried his face in her hair and continued to fuck her slowly. 

“Sherlock…” she called softly up to the ceiling. “Sherlock. Hurry. I need to go to work.”

“No,” he said in her ear. “Not yet.” His hands caught her wrists, held them firmly against the bed. “I refuse to finish until you do. So just come, Molly, and then I’ll let you up.” 

“Oh, Sherlock...” But it had become natural to obey him. She arched her back and tilted her hips until her body was clasping him tightly; he gasped and knitted his brow as she ground herself to her peak against him. Her climax was sharp and bracing, hurried, the spike in her heartbeat better than a cup of coffee to jolt her to full wakefulness. Sherlock followed moments later, groaning his release against her mouth. 

After just one lingering kiss, she twisted free of his grip and shoved at his shoulders. “Off me, Sherlock. I need to go back to mine. I’m meant to be at Bart’s in an hour.” 

“Fine,” he said, rather bitterly, and sat back. “I’ll call a cab.”

Ten minutes later, she was shutting the door behind her with a bit of dry toast in her hand. Without thinking, she glanced up at the window; he was standing there in his dressing gown, watching her as she slid into the cab. He hadn’t smiled once that morning.

Molly raced home, stroked poor Toby for a fleeting moment, showered, re-dressed, and took another expensive cab to Bart’s. Despite her rush, she slid into a seat at the back of the meeting room at twelve minutes after eight. She wasn’t the very last one in, she noted as a lower-ranking colleague followed soon after, but the director was looking at them both. 

Molly gave a little sigh of frustration. She had already gained some unwanted notoriety at Bart’s as the pathologist who’d falsified records after Sherlock’s fateful jump from the roof. Despite the intervention of Sherlock’s brother, the shadowy government official who had forestalled a disciplinary hearing, word of her involvement had created some distance between her and the rest of her colleagues. She needed to keep her nose clean. She would speak to Sherlock about detaining her for so long past her alarm; he might choose to disregard the clock and run about whenever he pleased, but she had an actual work schedule that she intended to honor. Including board meetings...no matter how pointless or interminable they might be….

Two endless hours in, her pocket buzzed. Molly didn’t move. It buzzed again, and yet again. 

Finally, Molly concluded that it would likely be less disruptive to simply reply to Sherlock and tell him to stop texting her than to ignore him entirely. Waiting until the director was deep into his near-verbatim recitation of the bullet points up on the screen, she got out her phone swiped her screen open. 

_Molly. This flat is unbearably dull. And the criminal classes seem to have utterly failed to take advantage of my recent preoccupation with you. When can you come back?_ she read. 

And then, _Molly. If you come back I’ll be terribly cruel to you. I promise. I’m making preparations for something particularly diabolical. Now, if only I could find that last little piece of kit. You’ll whimper when you see it._

Molly took a moment to shiver, then read his final text, intending to fire off some variant of “can’t talk, in a meeting.”

_Serious problem discovered. We have been under surveillance. Return at once._

Cold dropped into the pit of Molly’s stomach. Giving up on the presentation, she texted back hurriedly. _What kind of surveillance? What did you find? You had better not be having me on just to get me to come back._

But her phone was silent, and this, more than anything, erased denial and forced Molly to accept that Sherlock’s last text had been no joke. 

***

Half an hour later, after worrying through the remainder of the meeting, Molly returned yet again to Baker Street and opened the door onto a sitting room turned upside down. She had left only a few hours ago, but in that time, Sherlock had evidently lapsed into a frenzy of stripping his home to its very nails. 

Books and papers covered every surface, the rug was askew, and every piece of furniture was in a slightly different place than it had been. Sherlock himself was sitting on his arse in the middle of the floor, his shirt untucked, his tightly fisted hands visibly shaking. 

“Found a microphone under the bed,” Sherlock croaked. Molly’s heart trembled to hear that ragged voice; she wondered if he had been screaming.

“Nothing else in the flat,” he continued, springing to his feet and striding into the kitchen, which was in a similar state of upheaval. “Shelves, walls, ceiling and floors, even the furniture, it’s all clean. But before I sent that last text, I was looking under the bed for some kit, and I found this.”

His clenched hand opened, and a little black bulb of plastic on a crumpled stalk of wire fell onto a tangle of utensils on the kitchen table. Molly reached out a hand, but couldn’t bring herself to touch the loathsome thing. Her stomach roiled. 

“It was no longer transmitting when I found it. From the tiny battery, I estimate that it had only about two hours of power once it was activated, but there’s no way to tell when its transmission started or ended. I don’t know...Molly, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what they heard.” Sherlock faced her, pale and gaunt.

Molly said nothing, but averted her eyes from that stricken face as she paced the kitchen, hugging herself with gloved hands. She thought back, surely retracing Sherlock’s own lines of thinking but needing to remember for herself. When could the microphone have been placed? 

They had been in the flat continuously ever since their early-morning return from Indra’s, except for the few moments they had spent in the hall downstairs...and the hour that they’d taken last night to eat dinner in a restaurant. Molly leaned against the wall near the refrigerator and swallowed thickly. “Sherlock...when was the last time you looked under the bed?”

“The microphone wasn’t there the night we left for Indra’s house. I looked under the bed then, pulled out my driving gloves. Since then I’ve only reached under once, without looking, the day after. It could have already been there. So any time after that…” He swallowed. 

So much had passed between them in that bed during that span of time. Molly felt cold all over with the knowledge that somewhere in the world, there existed a recording of some of her and Sherlock’s sweetest, most intimate moments. And now those memories had been...invaded. Soiled. Surging up under her fear and disgust, a hot burst of rage nearly blinded her. 

“Who could have done this, Sherlock?” Molly asked quietly. At her side, her shaking hands closed into fists.

An answering anger blazed out of Sherlock’s eyes as he glared at the twisted bit of wire and plastic. “Who could have set out to violate our privacy in this way? I have an idea,” Sherlock said, clenching and unclenching his big hands, “but no proof whatsoever. Yes, it could have been the same person whom I believe to have hired the man in the white suit, but I’ve never been entirely sure about that, either. The man himself did not know who was behind it all. Of course.” 

Sherlock’s mouth turned down. Suddenly, he pounded the sides of both fists against the wall, jerking his head, his jaw opening in a tremendous roar of fury that surely echoed into the adjacent flats and out into Baker Street. 

“Sherlock!” Molly cried, rushing to him. “Don’t do that. You’ll hurt yourself.” She grabbed at his hands.

He jerked away from her almost instinctively, then his shoulders sagged; he gave a defeated sigh and accepted her arms around him, his body stiff beneath her hands. He buried his face in her hair. “I can’t seem to protect you from these things, Molly. I’m sorry. So sorry.” 

His forearms clenched across her back. “Molly. I’m a madman to think I can let anyone near...The people I care about...they end up in a bonfire or in a sniper’s sights. John even had a bomb strapped to him once, and now someone has been listening in while I’m with you...” Sherlock’s long face crumpled grotesquely. “Loving me...you can see it’s not safe. What am I doing, finally letting myself get close to you? I’m no good for you, Molly.” He ground the heel of his hand into one eye socket. 

For answer, Molly snatched that hand away from his face, then took his heated cheeks between her hands and kissed him lingeringly. He gave a muted sob against her mouth. 

“I love you, Sherlock,” Molly told him firmly, forcing him to meet her eyes. “So stop it. I told you before, I know what being with you can mean. If they think they’re going to drive me away from you like this...well, they’re wrong.” She set her jaw.

“No, you don’t understand. This was a threat as well as an invasion, Molly,” he told her, impatient, his gaze hardening. “It was not well hidden. The microphone. Clearly I was meant to find it quickly after it had served its purpose. And whomever did this knows enough about you and me to know that placing the microphone during these past few days would prove...fruitful.” He closed his eyes. "I said before that I didn't care for the illusion of privacy. It seems I've found an exception."

They shared a moment of silence. Then Molly asked, “You’ve searched everywhere? You’re sure the flat is clean now?” 

“Yes. Perfectly sure,” he replied dully. “At least, until I leave again.”

“Well, I’m only on call this afternoon, as it turns out. So unless there’s an emergency at Bart’s I can stay and help you tidy,” she informed him. 

“Well…” Sherlock began, looking up rather hastily at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. “In fact, I, ah…”

“What?” Molly asked, raising an eyebrow at his sudden diffidence.

The door banged open in the sitting room, and Molly turned. To her surprise and rising dismay, that young ruffian Bill Wiggins was shuffling into view, carrying with him a smell of stale sweat. He stopped, pulling a small case out of his shabby coat, and stared silently between Sherlock and Molly with those hollow, too-inquisitive eyes.

“Oh. Billy,” Sherlock said, rather faintly. “I’d forgotten you were coming.” He moved to tuck his shirt into his trousers.

“You forgot?” Bill looked around the chaotic room. “Not like you. Somefing distracted you bad, then. Somefing not very nice, by the look of it.” 

“Found a camera in the flat,” Sherlock said shortly. “Come on, Billy. Let’s get started.” With a quick glance at Molly, he moved toward the sofa and bent to jerk it back into its usual position.

“‘Course you didn’t find a camera,” Bill retorted. “Found a microphone, though. You’ve been opening cushions,” he said, picking up the leather one from Sherlock’s own armchair and brushing grubby fingers over its open zip. “Can’t throw me off the track, Shezza. Someone looking to listen in, then?” And Bill’s owlish face turned back to Molly. “Somefing to do with the missus?”

“Damn it, Billy,” Sherlock hissed in annoyance. “Shut up and bring that case. We have work to do. Molly, I’m very sorry, but it had slipped my mind that Bill and I have business this morning. Would you…?” 

“No, I’m not leaving, Sherlock,” Molly said. Sherlock was looking decidedly furtive and acting rather too polite. And her worst suspicions had been awakened by Bill’s presence, most especially by the little black case he was still fingering. She caught Sherlock’s eye; yes, she detected a hint of apprehension there. “I’ll just stay and tidy up a bit until Billy’s gone. Help keep an eye on things.” She narrowed her eyes, just a bit.

Sherlock’s shoulders sagged in something like despair. “As you like,” he said shortly, and shoved the sofa cushions back into place before seating himself. He jerked his head toward a chair. “Billy, we have work to do.”

And as the two men bent their heads and began a hushed discussion, Molly moved through the sitting room and the kitchen, beginning to set things back into some semblance of order. She stayed as quiet as she could, keeping her ears open, though their talk seemed to pause whenever she drew too near. 

She did overhear a few words, though, that puzzled her even as they somewhat calmed her suspicions. “Alcohol coadministration,” “geriatric dosing,” and “airway management” were not phrases she’d expect to hear during a junkie’s meeting with his dealer. Nor would she expect to see an addict work out four sets of calculations on a scrap of paper, which Billy then tucked carefully into his coat pocket. 

They’d argued over the last of those problem sets for quite some time, their tones hushed but urgent. At one point, Sherlock had jumped up and brushed past Molly to retrieve an issue of the _British Journal of Anaesthesia in Pregnancy_ from a pile of papers. He’d whipped through the pages and quietly pointed out a few things to Bill, who had squinched up his mouth and nodded to Sherlock. 

“Molly,” Sherlock called to her at one point. “Would you mind terribly putting the kettle on?” 

She raised an eyebrow. More unwonted politeness from Sherlock; did he mean for her to be distracted by tea things while he did something he’d rather she not witness? Molly had no wish to confront Sherlock in front of Bill, so she just nodded assent and returned to the kitchen, but glanced back at the men every few moments. Sure enough, they were passing implements and a little bottle of clear liquid between them, and cold dread settled in Molly’s stomach. 

Turning down the corners of her mouth, Molly walked over to the men, not bothering to hide her stormy expression from Sherlock. 

“How do you take your tea, Bill?” Molly asked, glancing over at Sherlock, who looked rather abashed to be caught holding the little medication bottle and a syringe---a needleless, oral syringe, Molly noted with a flash of confusion---in his hands. 

“Lotsa milk, lotsa sugar. Thanks, missus,” Bill said, bending his head respectfully. Sherlock’s lip twitched in fury, but he just stared stonily at the wall, looking as though he’d been suffering this young fool for an age. Despite her perplexity over the medical implements, Molly felt a flash of amusement as she turned away. Missus, indeed. 

After a moment, she carried over two steaming mugs and set them before Sherlock and Bill. To Molly’s astonishment, after thanking her Bill immediately caught up the oral syringe and squirted the contents into his own mug before taking a hearty swallow. 

Sherlock looked for a moment as if he might shout at Billy, but then subsided and just glanced at his watch. Then, not touching his mug, Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and looked up at Molly, who could remain silent no longer.

“Sherlock. What is going on here?” she asked him, folding her arms as well. “What are you two doing?”

“Ha, it looks bad, dunnit, but Shezza ain’t using no more, so don’t worry your head,” Bill piped up. He hefted his mug. “Lovely tea, missus.” 

“Billy, stop calling her that,” Sherlock snapped. 

“Seems like I know somefing you don’t, boss,” Bill drawled, and slurped at his mug with another of those knowing glances up at Molly. Sherlock gave a great sigh and worked his jaw before schooling his expression once more. 

“Billy here has agreed to help me determine the proper oral dosage of this medication to produce a short-lived soporific effect,” Sherlock said lightly, steepling his fingers under his chin and looking Molly in the eye. “It’s for a case.” His face was the picture of innocence. 

“What drug is this?” Molly asked, picking up the little unlabeled bottle. “And where did you get it?”

“Didn’t nick it or nuffin’,” Bill interjected pleasantly. “Got me a pre-scrip-tion,” he added, looking almost proud of this. 

“Oh for god’s sake!” Sherlock snapped. “Just shut up for one moment, won’t you!” 

“Careful of scarin’ me, Shezza,” the young man said, unconcerned. “You don’t want adrenaline affectin’ my reactions, right?” Bill put his tea down, banging the mug against the table rather hard. “Feelin’ a bit dizzy now,” he said with an air of contentment.

“Some kind of opiate,” Molly said, shaking her head. “Oh, Sherlock. You shouldn’t be around this.”

“I’ll take any drug test you care to name, Molly, but I cannot tell you anything more about this matter. Will you trust me? Come now, Molly, be logical. You’ve been with me almost every moment for days,” Sherlock said, ignoring Billy’s mutter of “Ha! Knew it,” except to throw the young man a freezing glare before continuing. “And you would have noticed marks somewhere on my body.” 

Bill gave a faint whoop at this, and reached over to slap Sherlock on the shoulder, rather weakly. But then, Bill fell back into his chair, his eyes wide and rolling up to the ceiling before they dropped slowly closed. Sherlock glanced down at his watch and marked the time. “Dosage a bit high, then,” he said to himself. Billy gave a faint snore. 

 

“Sherlock, don’t you tell me to be logical. Why even let yourself be around temptation this way? You’re playing with fire. You know that.” Molly looked him straight in the eye. “Sherlock, you scared me just now. I want you to understand that if you ever start using again, I’ll leave you. That’s the plain truth. Believe it.” 

“My Molly,” Sherlock said, rising and pulling her against him. “I do believe you. I’d expect nothing less from you.” 

He watched her for a moment, searched her solemn face. “You give me courage, you know.” He took her chin in his hand. “To stay strong. To do what needs to be done.” 

And there was that look in his eyes, Molly saw with a painful jolt...that grim, almost desperate look. She’d seen it before, years ago, during that long night at Bart’s...those tense hours of fear when they’d been rushing to make their plans.

“What are you talking about?” Molly asked. “What’s going on, Sherlock? Tell me!”

He took a long breath. “There is a matter that I need to settle, Molly. I told you before...It should be no more than a negotiation between gentlemen, ending in an arrest. Not without risk, of course, but I can assure you that it will be a battle of wits, not weapons. Don’t cry, Molly. Please,” he said, touching her face as the tears spilled down her cheeks. “My life will not be in danger, not like before...unless I’ve wildly misread the situation. And believe me when I say I’ve devoted months to this endeavor. I’ve set my trap very carefully. My adversary is a foul and cruel man, but he does not personally deal in violence. You have nothing to worry over, my Molly.”

“That doesn’t really make me feel any better,” Molly sobbed, clutching him to her, the heartbeat under his skin so warm and sweetly alive. And that life, she knew with a medical doctor’s clarity, was terrifyingly fragile. His mind, his soul, everything that made him Sherlock was housed in that dear body, that frame that could be broken so very quickly, in so many ways.

“Is this about the man in the white suit?” she demanded, holding him away from her, and saw the answer in his expression. “Sherlock, don’t do this for my sake. No matter what you say...I know you, Sherlock. I can tell when you’re looking danger in the face. You’ve come too close to death so many times,” she sobbed. “Eventually… eventually, you _will_ misread the situation. You’ll make a mistake. And then...and then I’ll lose you.” 

Sherlock said nothing at first, but buried his face in her hair, taking great gulps of her scent. “I have to do this tomorrow,” he murmured finally. “It’s all arranged.”

“Tomorrow! On Christmas Day. Oh, please don’t, just don’t,” she said, unable to control her weeping now. “Forget this, just forget it all and let’s spend Christmas at my mother’s. No, no, we’ll spend it together, here, just the two of us,” she pleaded. 

“I can’t, Molly. This is about far more than the man in the white suit. It involves others, and I can’t deviate from this path without betraying a promise I hold most dear. Besides,” he said, turning away stiffly, “logically speaking, you’ll lose me eventually. All relationships end. You said so yourself just this morning.”

“Sod your logic, Sherlock,” Molly snarled. “You can’t seize on what I said before and use it to push me away.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock said miserably. “I just...want to make it easier for you. When the time comes.”

Molly drew breath to tell him that nothing could make losing him easier, but he reached out and crushed her mouth to his, twisting his hand in her hair.

“I will win,” he said into her ear, his tone roughening into a growl. “I’ll protect you all. If it’s the last thing I do.” 

His other hand was wandering down her back to cup her arse, and Molly felt a spike of arousal, but reached behind and snatched his hand away. “Sherlock,” she whispered. “No. Not in front of Bill.” 

Sherlock released her slowly. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, then turned and bent over the young man to hold a hand against his face. “No respiratory depression,” he muttered. “Though Billy isn’t the best subject for this experiment, given the state of his opiate receptors, I didn’t want to test the stuff on myself for reasons you’ve been good enough to point out. Ah,” he said, as Bill stirred and gave a moan. 

“Bucket, please,” Sherlock said to Molly, pointing, and Molly dumped out a plastic container full of key rings onto the floor and handed it to Sherlock. 

Bill clutched at the bucket and bowed his head as he slowly came back to full wakefulness, but didn’t actually throw up, much to Molly’s relief. Sherlock sat near Bill for a while, and Molly soon withdrew to the kitchen to continue putting plates and mugs back into the cupboards. 

She didn’t mind doing this for Sherlock, she reflected as she put a kitchen drawer back in order. He’d searched the flat for her sake, after all, and helping take care of the mess felt rather...wifely...to her. Molly smiled to herself. Best not to share that little piece of sentiment with Sherlock, she thought. Aside from the obvious discomfort he showed when Billy called her “the missus,” Molly had no wish to tempt Sherlock to press her into anything resembling real domestic service. A maid costume was one thing…

Bill was getting to his feet, holding onto the chair for balance but soon shrugging off Sherlock’s grip on his shoulder. 

“I got this, Shezza,” he said. “Tiny dose, that. Not a fan of what it’s done to my stomach, mind you. Cor, is that a hundred?” 

Sherlock was stuffing money into Bill’s pocket. “Call it a Christmas bonus. Be here tomorrow morning, early, like we planned. Don’t forget to shower and wear those clean clothes,” he added, pushing Bill toward the door. 

“All right, Shezza, I’m going,” Bill said from the doorway. “Merry Christmas, missus,” he called, actually giving Molly a half-bow before shooting Sherlock a final, meaningful glance and turning to clomp slowly down the stairs. 

Sherlock shut the door and turned to Molly as the footsteps faded into quiet. He stood tall, and seemed to come to a decision.

“Molly,” he said. The darkness was gathering in his eyes. “On your knees. I’ve had a stressful morning. And I require relief.” He reached over to the sofa and snatched one of the cushions, dropping it at his feet before leaning back against the door. 

His direction could not have been more clear. And after the chaos of the morning, Molly felt herself relaxing, grateful for his decree of this change of pace. She would be glad to take this time with her Sherlock to forget about their troubles for a few moments, and just play their little games….

Molly smiled to herself. While she was tidying up the sitting room, she’d quietly pocketed something interesting for later, and it seemed she was going to get to use it immediately. All the better.

Molly said nothing in reply to his imperious demand, but sank to her knees where she was, letting her smile show. He was focused entirely on her as she crawled slowly across the floor to kneel on the cushion at his feet. When she meekly kissed the warm lump at the front of his trousers, she heard a little hitch in his breath. 

“Open my trousers. With your mouth,” he said, his voice dark and deep, with that hard note of command that sent a shiver down her back. She raised herself a little and put her hands on his hips for balance; he laid his own hands over hers, the gesture both caress and restraint. Molly gave a tiny moan to feel her hands so prisoned, with the fleeting thought that she’d made herself vulnerable to this by putting her hands there; she hoped her mouth would be adequate to the task before her. 

With a last breath, Molly leaned in, taking the tab of those fine, bespoke trousers carefully between her teeth; she was so grateful that Sherlock didn’t wear belts. She craned her neck and pulled to the side; the angle was unaccustomed, but she soon felt the tab slide free of the bar. 

But there was a button in his trousers as well, holding the other side of the tab closed. She didn’t see how she could possibly reach it...but before her brow could furrow in dismay, Sherlock reached up for an instant and released it himself. 

“You’ll learn that one...all in good time,” Molly heard him murmur, and she felt a sweet rush of gratitude for this kindness. She leaned to kiss the hand that he’d settled firmly back over her own, and heard the answering smile in his voice. “Good girl. Now the zip…”

She had to nudge the cloth aside with her nose and lips in order to catch the little piece of metal in her mouth. She gripped the zip carefully between her teeth, using the tip of her tongue to hold it steady as she pulled slowly downward. His erection was making things rather tight…she had to change the angle of her head a bit, but oh, thank goodness, it was sliding down....

As she drew the zip all the way open, she heard Sherlock sigh in relief. “Now pull out my cock. Quickly,” he snapped, making her jump. She nuzzled her face into his warm belly push the shirt aside and catch the waistband of his pants in her mouth, pulling the cloth carefully downward to expose that crisp black hair. If only he’d let her use her hands! But though he was helping her somewhat by pushing down his trousers a few inches, his hands were still trapping her own. Her own little plans would come to naught if he didn’t let her hands free.

After long moments of her effort, his cock finally came fully free of his pants, and Molly caught it into her mouth with a moan. She took it halfway at first, then drew back to slip her tongue inside the foreskin, caressing the sensitive head. 

She heard Sherlock’s head tip back against the door. “Beautiful, Molly. Such a good girl,” he said with a sigh of contentment. And as she drew on her lover’s cock with firm strokes, she savoured his clean, musky scent and the salty taste of him, so firm and warm in her mouth. She squirmed a little on the cushion; she could feel her own arousal beginning to pool in her knickers. 

“Oh, darling Molly,” Sherlock panted. “You are the loveliest little plaything, you know. Such a shameless mouth. I loved showing you off at Indra’s...shoving my cock down your throat, making you swallow everything. Such a good girl, so obedient. Wait,” Sherlock said suddenly, and pushed her gently away, releasing her hands.

Molly drew off his cock and looked up at him, widening her eyes and attempting to look forlorn. She bit her lip for good measure, and wiggled her bottom. His eyes crinkled in that way that she loved. 

“Strip,” he directed her. “As expediently as you can. I want you naked to serve me, as a little slave should be.” 

Well, that certainly complicated her plan, but all was not lost. Molly rushed to unbutton and unhook, shedding her clothes as quickly as she could without rising completely off her knees. She made sure to leave her trousers just beside the cushion, as if by accident. 

Finally she was kneeling naked before him and shivering a little as the air touched her skin, looking up at his dear, beautiful face and longing to continue. But Sherlock, it seemed, wasn’t finished with her yet. He bent down to playfully pinch both her rosy little nipples, and chuckled at her moan. But what he said next made her heart gallop.

“Hand me your belt,” he purred down at her with a twinkle in his eye.

Her hands shook a little as she drew her belt out of its loops, being careful to leave her trouser pocket in the same accessible position. What did he mean to do with the belt? Would he require her to present her arse and use it to hit her harder than he’d ever done? Or…

As soon as she lifted the belt to him, formally, using both hands, Sherlock lifted it and swiftly inspected the braided leather and the buckle. Evidently finding everything to his satisfaction, he looped the end of the leather through the buckle and dropped it around Molly’s neck, lifting her hair free, then gently settling the loop so that the band of leather lay flat and snug---but not tight---against her throat. He’d made sure to turn the buckle to the side so that he could hold the long end of the belt in his right hand. Like a leash, Molly thought, with a little whimper.

“Now,” Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing with pleasure. “Look at you, my darling. Naked and collared, kneeling before me with those wet lips. So eager to serve your master. Go ahead, hungry little thing. Open your mouth for me.” And Sherlock took her hair tightly in his other hand and guided her head forward, holding the makeshift leash out beside her head but never pulling on it. 

Molly plunged her head down over that delicious cock with a moan, aching with arousal at this wicked new game of his. The image shimmered in her mind: she, naked and kneeling humbly on her cushion with the belt around her neck; he, fully clothed above her, holding that controlling leash and enjoying her mouth.

“Now, take it deeply,” Sherlock said above her. “Let me feel that talented throat of yours.”

Molly took a deep breath, then pushed forward and carefully relaxed her throat, silently coaching herself past her gag reflex. It was worth the effort to hear that beautiful voice lifting in moans of pleasure, to hear him repeating her name in sweet tones of praise. 

After a few moments, he released her head. Molly gasped and panted. His face was still lifted upward; she took her opportunity and surreptitiously reached into her trouser pocket, sliding the finger cot quickly onto her index finger. She reached for his arse, sliding her hands inside his trousers and drawing them down a little farther. 

“You wonderful girl, beautiful, oh, oh, Molly,” Sherlock was gasping; he looked down at her with reverence. “Your master is so pleased with you. Give me more of your mouth, your throat…” He drew her face forward again. 

He’d left Molly’s right hand free, and as she continued to pleasure his cock, she drew her latex-covered finger up to her mouth and caught some of the saliva that had dribbled down her chin. She wet the finger thoroughly, then held it aside and slipped her other hand behind Sherlock’s pretty arse. No longer bothering to hide what she was up to, she slid her fingers into the warm cleft of his buttocks and was gratified to hear his rich laugh. 

“What’s this, Molly?” He looked down at her, then let the leash fall for a moment to push his underwear farther out of the way. “You wicked, wicked wanton of a girl. You’ll do anything to please your master, won’t you,” he said caressingly. “Well? Go ahead.”

Molly released his cock for a moment to smile up at him, and gathered more saliva on her finger. She reached, and soon found the hidden opening she was looking for. She swirled against the furled ring of muscle, then pried gently inside his body. Sherlock gave a throaty sigh, and Molly caught his cock back into her mouth, feeling quite pleased with herself. 

“God, Molly. Press a little deeper. Yes, just there,” Sherlock directed her, his cock swelling and going steely in her mouth. “Oh, I’m going to come, Molly. I want your throat for it, open up, my filthy darling…” 

And Molly obeyed him, her moan choked off by his cock. Her finger squirmed in his body, and Sherlock gave a shout, calling her name as he spasmed and spilled deep in her throat. The belt quivered around her neck as his hand shook with the violence of his climax. 

After a moment, Sherlock was grinning down at her, his hair grown damp with sweat. Molly dropped a last kiss on his cock, then slipped her finger out of his body and rolled the finger cot off. “Delightful little inventions, aren’t they,” she said, laughing. 

“You bad, bad thing,” Sherlock said, his smile dropping. “You’re in trouble now, you know.” He threaded his fingers into her hair, fisting his hand quicker and more tightly than Molly anticipated, making her yelp. 

“Move,” he snapped at her, dragging her over to the sofa by her hair. It wasn’t far, but Molly had to scramble. He flung her over the arm of it, got behind her, and kicked her legs apart, never letting go of her leash, even as he avoided holding it out tight. 

“So presumptuous,” Sherlock hissed in her ear. “Slipping a finger up your master’s arse. Making me come so hard I’ll ache later. I’m a busy man,” Sherlock said as he reached down to stroke her pussy, pressing so hard that Molly writhed instinctively away from his fingers with a little cry of protest. “I can’t be having distractions like that while I’m out saving the world. Spread your legs wider. Wider!”

Molly obeyed, her heart racing to hear his harsh voice, that arrogant note that sent a tingle along her every nerve. But then, after swiftly slipping a finger under her collar to ensure all was well, Sherlock began her spanking. And it was a spanking like she’d never received. 

He held the belt out carefully, while the other hand walloped Molly’s arse again, and again, and again. He spanked her hard, fast, and without mercy; Molly could hear him panting with the effort. She twisted beneath him, crying out weakly, her arousal blending with the pain and the thrill of it all until Molly was utterly beside herself. 

Time and time again, she found herself seconds away from using her safeword, but then he would stop for a moment to caress her pussy, or slow his strokes while whispering into her ear. 

“You deserve this pain, every bit of it,” he said at one point, giving her sharp little blows. “You’re wilful, and beautiful, and you always leave me hungry. I can’t ever seem to take my fill of you. You torment me. Just by existing, you torment me, Molly.” 

And after another age of spanking or perhaps only a minute or two, his voice was again purring next to her head while his fingertips slipped caressingly along her pussy. “You should see your arse, Molly. The marks of my fingers are fanning out on both sides like angel wings. Pink angel wings on your arse, my love.” Those fingers, so hot from her spanking, pushed up inside her. 

“I want to make you come, my darling,” he told her. “Come while I’m spanking you. Or perhaps I’ll just keep going, see how far I can push you until you give in, give me your safeword. Yes, that sounds lovely. Come for me...or safeword out. It will be one or the other. Or perhaps both…”

Some part of Molly sensed that Sherlock was taking them both farther than they’d ever gone before, to a place where his careful planning and self-control was eclipsed, wildly overtaken by a primal drive to possess and dominate. He’d dropped the end of the belt leash, likely to remove any temptation to pull on it and hurt her, but leaving it in place around her neck. Now he was devoting both hands to wrenching pain and pleasure out of her body, sometimes in the same moment. 

He’d pulled her off the sofa and onto the floor at some point, flinging a leg over hers as he held her hair and continued her spanking. After a time, he rolled her over on her back and pulled one of her legs up, directing her to cover her clit with her hand. Then he gave her pussy sharp little slaps while barking at her to look him in the eyes as he did it. Dizzy with the intensity of it all, Molly quivered beneath him, watching those predator’s eyes glinting with lust as he spanked her delicately between her legs, catching his hard look of satisfaction when he saw her beatific smile. 

“You’re flying high, my darling,” he said lovingly, looming over her and caressing her cheek. “On your own endorphins. You’ll never safeword now, so I suppose I must stop spanking you, but…” He reached down between their bodies and surged forward over Molly, and suddenly he was filling her, piercing the stinging ache in her pussy so suddenly and with such perfect audacity that Molly shuddered, and keened, and came. 

“That’s right,” he crooned as he moved over her, his hand soothing on her heated face. “There we are.” 

He kissed at her tears as he moved between her legs, cradling the back of her head in his hand. His gentleness with her now, far more than his earlier brutality, forced more tears out of Molly. She held him close and sobbed into his curls, utterly undone.

“Are you ready for me to finish, my own?” His voice sounded beside her ear, so deep, so soft. Not trusting herself to speak, Molly nodded her agreement, and Sherlock caught up one of her legs again, hunched his shoulders over her, and gave her hard thrusts. Soon, he was roaring out his completion too close to her face, his face crumpled as if in anguish; she felt the impact under her body as his shoe kicked the hard floor. His fingers clutched at air, spasmed, and finally dropped to the wood next to their bodies. For long moments, he just lay over her, breathing hard.

“Oh, Molly,” he said finally. “Are you all right? That was...oh, darling. I’m sorry.” 

For her own part, Molly had been floating dreamily, only vaguely aware of the discomfort of the hard floor beneath her back, her body sweetly lost in a pulsing warmth. She lifted her face and saw that he was weeping. 

“What did I do to you?” he whispered brokenly, glancing at his sore, red hands and then back to her face. Couldn’t he see her smiling at him? “I’m so sorry, Molly.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said, gathering him close. He’d never reacted this way before. A cold little trickle of worry began to thread its way underneath her bliss.

Molly held onto that feeling for a moment, and thought carefully. Sherlock must be experiencing something like the storm of weeping that had overtaken her, in the moments after those first few times they’d played. What had he done for her then? 

He’d held her, kept her warm, reassured her. So Molly stroked Sherlock’s hair and murmured in his ear. 

“I love you, Sherlock. I’m perfectly fine. Please don’t cry. Look at me,” she said. “Look at my face, Sherlock. I’m happy. I had a lovely time. You hurt me, but you didn’t harm me.”

His eyes searched hers. He looked haunted, lost. 

“Oh Molly. I’m so afraid,” he moaned suddenly, and leaned down to bury his face against her neck. “I’m afraid of tomorrow. That there will be a trap I can’t see. But it’s too late to turn back..I have to do this, Molly.”

She had nothing to say to this. She held him close. But Sherlock kept talking, brokenly, growing more agitated by the moment. Helpless, Molly could only listen.

“I hope that when I die they’ll send me to Bart’s morgue. Send me to you, and your knife.” He wiped at the tears that were still on her face, then brought his fingers slowly to his mouth, touched his tongue to the wetness. “For me, that would be like going home. I don’t care what they do with me after.”

“No, Sherlock.” Molly cried. “Don’t say things like that. You told me before that you’d be fine….”

“When they bring my body to you, I want you to steal my heart, Molly. Save it in a jar, close me up, say nothing to anyone, keep it forever. It’s yours, only yours.” His mouth trembled.

“Shut up,” Molly cried. “Don’t say things like that. It’s not funny, Sherlock.”

“Not in the slightest. I’ll do anything to keep you safe, Molly. I belong to you. Utterly. Please remember that,” he said, taking both her hands in his and kissing them hard, one after the other. 

He did not smile again for the rest of that day. She had to force him to eat lunch, and afterward he’d just sat in his chair for an hour or so, saying nothing, seeming to withdraw completely into himself. She’d been almost relieved to get the page from Bart’s, asking her to come in to help process the victims of a terrible multi-car crash. He’d barely reacted when she kissed him goodbye, and she left him sitting in the middle of his wrecked flat, utterly motionless, his fingers steepled under the cold, still light of his eyes. 

Molly worked late into the night. When she woke alone in her own flat the next morning, it was to the chime of her phone. She looked sleepily down at the screen. 

_Heading into battle. Wanted to wish you a merry Christmas before shutting off this phone._

Molly bit back a gasp of dismay, and read on. 

_Don’t attempt to contact me until I get back in touch. I love you, Molly Hooper. I’ll see you on the other side._

And Molly laid her phone back down, pulled the duvet tightly around herself, and sobbed with a helplessness that left her sick and shaking.


	16. Chapter 16

“No, Mum, I can't come back. I have to go to the lab to lift my cultures,” Molly said into her phone. “No, I said 'lift my cultures.' Put them onto new plates so they can keep growing. Yes, I have to do it today. Even though it's Christmas. It's time to do it, so I have to do it tonight. Yes, for my research.”

Molly fumbled off her mitten, trying to key open the outer door of the Pathology Department and hold her phone at the same time. It had been a long, dark Christmas Day, with icy patches on the pavement that seemed to lie in wait for her boots. She'd spent a good part of the day traveling to and from her mother's house, where several hours of forced cheerfulness had worn at her until her spirit felt as thin and grey as the dying light of the evening. 

“I'm sorry, Mum. It's just too far to come back tonight. I'll see you in a couple of weeks, yeah? Take care. Love to Steve. Goodbye, Mum. Goodbye.”

Molly rang off with a sigh, then walked into her lab, her own space, where her precious cultures waited. Working with her cultures was rhythmic, calming. Her cultures would not push overly sweet drinks into her hand, or comment loudly that since she was so quiet, she must be thinking something very important and why didn't she share it with everyone, or ask uncomfortable questions about her love life...

Of Sherlock, she'd said not a word. What was she supposed to tell her mother? _Yes, Mum, I'm with Sherlock Holmes. Yes, the bloke from the papers. No, I don't think I'll bring him round. Where is he today, you ask? Oh, out making a devil's bargain with someone very dangerous. No, I haven't heard from him since early this morning...._

There had been not a word. And, of course, she could think of almost nothing else. But it was pleasant to be alone at Bart's tonight, soothing to do the simple work of readying the equipment, transferring her cultures, and cleaning up again. She was just wiping down the sterile hood when her mobile rang. Frowning, she snapped off a glove and caught up the phone, looking at the screen. It was John Watson. 

John never called, only texted. Molly went cold. She swiped open the phone. “Hello? John? What's happened?”

“Have you seen the news, Molly?” John was shouting, his voice barely audible over a thrumming noise in the background. “About Charles Augustus Magnussen...they're lying, Molls, Sherlock isn't on the run...No, I'm talking, Mycroft. No, I need to tell her!” His voice was strained, hysterical.

“John!” Molly called into the phone. She could hear the two men arguing bitterly, that great roar muffling their words. The alcohol wipe fell to the ground, forgotten, as Molly fairly ran to a workstation and tapped urgently to wake up the computer, still holding her phone to her ear.

“Molly, don't believe it, he hasn't escaped. He's in custody. It's just a cover---” 

The call ended abruptly, but a text came through almost immediately, from a blocked number. 

_Tell no one, or there will be consequences. MH_

Molly swallowed.

Her fingers were clumsy as she called up breaking news stories, then punched in the phrase “charles augustus”---all she could remember of the name John had spoken. And then she saw it.

MEDIA TITAN MURDERED. KILLER STILL AT LARGE.

 _Killer._ Her eyes rested on the word. Inside her heart, a sensation of falling.

Numbly, she clicked open the article, scanned the sparse details. 

Newspaper magnate Charles Augustus Magnussen. Murdered in front of police at his home in the Cotswolds a half-hour previous, for reasons unknown. Unidentified shooter fled the scene. Considered armed and dangerous. 

Molly sat down in her chair with a bump, her mind spinning. John had told her not to believe the news...but the facts spoke for themselves. Undeniably. It was tempting to cling to the idea that everything about the article was a lie, but...if Sherlock was in custody, and Mycroft was trying to suppress the real story, then part of it, the crucial part, must be true. Sherlock...had committed murder. 

Everything she'd dreaded...it was happening. Her life was burning down, those castles in the air were crumbling, destroying that brief happiness she'd tasted with the man she'd loved for so long. 

I've lost him, she thought. She could feel the truth of it looming, crashing like the waters of a stormy ocean barely held back by a wall of numbness. 

Molly sat for a long time in the dark, just thinking. Then she silently gathered her things and left the hospital, making for 221B Baker Street. 

The building was deserted and cold when she keyed open the front door. Surely Mrs Hudson was spending Christmas with family. Molly hoped that the nice old lady had not yet somehow heard what had happened, that she would not know for as long as possible. Slowly Molly climbed the stairs, then pushed open the door to the sitting room. 

Stopping in the middle of the room, Molly lifted her voice in the darkness. 

“Mycroft. Can you hear me? I think you can.”

She waited a moment, then continued. “Mycroft, I love your brother, and he loves me. I need to know what happened. What will happen to Sherlock. Please,” she said, her voice finally breaking. “Please, I need to speak to him. Please, Mycroft. He needs me.” 

She waited. Everything was still. Molly's phone remained silent, but she stood there in the darkness, stubbornly waiting, while cold tears soaked her scarf. 

 

***

 

The next two days passed in a painful blur. Molly knew she ought to call Beth, share her pain and uncertainty, but Mycroft's threat of unknown consequences gave her pause. She could not risk Beth by telling her anything. And how could she unburden herself to her friend when she could tell only part of the story? John and Mary were far better prospects, but they were not answering their phones, and Molly soon stopped trying to contact them. The knot of fear in her stomach grew tighter.

Not knowing was the worst part. She scanned the internet, watched the news on the telly, in vague hope that she could glean some new information that might fit together with what she did know. The news story was repeated a few times, but she saw no new facts come to light. In fact the coverage soon ceased altogether, rather abruptly, and still there was no news of Sherlock, or John, or Mary. 

Mycroft had not contacted her, and Molly's grief and fear were soon joined by a rising anger. How dare Mycroft ignore her, leave her to suffer alone? 

Molly packed a bag for a few days, coaxed Toby into his carrier, and moved them both to Baker Street for the time being; she wanted to be at the centre of the action should anything happen. Mrs Hudson did not reappear, and so Molly and Toby waited for something, anything, to break the tension. 

She was sleeping fitfully in Sherlock's bed, clinging to the pillows that still held his scent, when her phone rang. She didn't recognize the number, but snatched up the phone and swiped it open. “Hello?”

“Molly,” she heard, that voice deep and sweet.

“Sherlock!” she cried, wide awake in a moment, sitting bolt upright. “Where are you? Are you all right?”

“I don't know, and no, I'm not all right, Molly,” said Sherlock thickly. “I'm being held in some facility somewhere, and I've stolen a phone. I don't know how long we'll have to talk. And they'll pull the records on this call afterward, go over everything...so be careful what you say.”

“What...oh, Sherlock, what can you tell me? Are you hurt?” The tears were already sliding down her cheeks. 

“No, not hurt,” said that dear voice. “But Molly...we'll never see each other again.”

“No,” she whispered, as her worst fears carved a home in her heart. “Sherlock, please...”

“I'm being sent into permanent exile. Mycroft is using me for an assignment, sending me to Eastern Europe to spy for Britain. I'm not going to survive it. I won't tell you anything about the mission, Molly, so don't dare ask. No,” Sherlock said, low and urgent, over her sob of protest. “Listen to me. I have things I need to say, and this is my last chance.”

Molly made a noise of pure misery deep in her throat. She almost preferred the torture of ignorance to this new despair, but drew upon the last of her strength. He needed her to stay calm.

“Yes, Sherlock. I'm listening.” She steeled herself.

“I killed that man, Magnussen. I'm not sorry, Molly. He was the one who sent the man in the white suit, who had the microphone placed. He repeated my words back to me. Words he overheard me say to you, while I was inside you, the day after we went to Indra's. I wasn't sure of it at first, but a few minutes later he made it clear...his threat to do you harm. He held that over me, gloating, he savoured it...!” Sherlock's voice grew ragged with rage. “Do you remember when I told you,” he said, “that you make the funniest noises?”

“Oh, my god.” Molly closed her eyes in horror. “You killed him...for me?”

“Not just for you, not remotely. He had John and Mary as well. Worse. Threatening them with utter ruin, likely death. I vowed to protect them, no matter what. But, my Molly, I can't deny that the moment I heard my own words coming out of his mouth was the moment I knew I would kill him. I am a murderer, Molly. I can't tell you more...they will discover me at any moment, take this phone. But Molly, please trust me, it was the only thing to do. I'd do it again.” 

“Oh, Sherlock.” Molly fought for control, reached after something to say. But nothing could turn back time, erase this ugly reality from their world.

“Now, listen to me, Molly,” Sherlock was saying. “I need you to listen very carefully to what I say next. I need you to do something for me.”

“Y-yes, Sherlock,” Molly said. He needed her; she would focus. “Anything.”

“I've willed all I own to you and John, and Mrs Hudson. That has been in place for some time. It would have been better if I'd already married you, but...Molly, I need to you to take care of Joshua for me. My son. Just give him two hundred thousand pounds of your share, somehow, but don't tell him or Michaela who it's from. Will you please do that for me?”

“Yes, of course, Sherlock,” Molly choked out. He trusted her to take care of his son's inheritance. He would have married her. But now she was horribly aware that their remaining time together was measured in moments, was slipping away second by second.

“Anything...else?”

“My master password...it will open my electronic keychain, get you into my laptop, my website, my email, my bank accounts, all my encrypted files. My master password is hidden, Molly. It's inside your safeword. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Molly said, getting up out of bed and hurrying into the sitting room, where Sherlock's human skull waited on the mantelpiece. The master password must be hidden inside it. “What do you want me to do with it?” 

“When I'm gone...it won't be long, and Mycroft promised me he'd let you know when...tell Indra,” he said, his voice tight with tears. “His email address...you'll find it. And Bridget...and Lestrade. Mrs Hudson. And John and Mary. I don't know if I'll be allowed to see them before...” His voice broke. “Please give them all my love, and tell them---oh no---”

“Sherlock!” Molly cried. She could hear indistinct male voices shouting in the background. 

“They've found me. They're opening the door to my cell. Molly, I love you so much.”

“No matter where you're going, I'd follow you,” she cried into the phone. “Sherlock!” 

“Get away from me,” she heard Sherlock snarl, and then an impact and his grunt, and the sounds of a scuffle. A loud clatter, and the call ended. 

And Molly held her phone to her heart, and sank down onto the cold floor of the sitting room, just where Sherlock had taken her for the last time, though neither of them knew it. That patch of floor there, where only days before she'd quailed to see that red glint in his eyes as he'd given her pain, then savoured that groaning cry of his ecstasy as he had locked his body so tightly with hers. 

Gone. Never again. Never to hear his voice in the morning, or work alongside him in the lab, or be dazzled by his mind, or feel the tender strike of his open hand. 

No. She would not accept this, even if it meant she had to search for Sherlock through every city in Eastern Europe. Too wrung out even to cry, Molly sat in the darkness and swore to herself that as soon as John and Mary reappeared, she would demand their help. Or she'd go on her own. 

She would find him, no matter what it took. She'd fulfill her promises to him, but not until all hope was lost. And while he still lived, she would not give up.


	17. Chapter 17

Molly shone a light into the opening at the base of the skull and peeked inside, and carefully wrote out the long sequence of random letters and numbers Sherlock had somehow painted inside the cranium. Then she opened Sherlock's computer and copied everything to an external hard drive she'd purchased. Every email, every document, all his information was captured, the hard drive carefully hidden in her flat. She'd go through it later, if there was a need. Molly shook her head against the thought; there would never be a need, and she'd destroy the copy without looking at it. After he was home.

She hadn't done it a day too soon. As Molly was walking down Baker Street the next evening after slogging through another day with no news, she looked up to the window and saw lights moving in the sitting room. 

“Toby,” she whispered to herself as she backed away quietly to wait for the intruders to leave. But likely Toby was hiding already, and she had no wish to confront whomever it was who was searching Sherlock's flat. 

Some hours later she returned, when all was still and quiet. Toby was there, safe, but meowing his anxiety at her as soon as she opened the door. Sherlock's computer and all his equipment were gone, as was the skull. They must have figured out what Sherlock had meant by “your safeword” during their last phone call. 

So there were other recordings of her and Sherlock's interactions. Mycroft again, surely, the cold bastard. Molly smiled grimly to herself; she'd altered Sherlock's master password, changing it to the long, complex chemical formula of a certain pharmaceutical molecule. She knew Mycroft's people would crack it eventually, but she took spiteful pleasure in making the task slightly more difficult for them.

When the skull password didn't work, surely Mycroft would immediately understand what she'd done. He could then require her to give him the new password, of course, but so far he had left Molly well alone. Perhaps he already knew that she would defy him, and had decided to use slower, less confrontational means. Wise of him. Molly had absolutely nothing to give the brother who had consigned Sherlock to exile and death in a faraway land. 

But Molly suspected that the affair was not finished. John and Mary were still missing; she'd tried to inquire at the clinic where they worked, but was stymied, likely by Mycroft's intervention. The clinic staff would tell her nothing, but Molly reasoned that even if Mycroft was detaining John and Mary, he could not keep them forever. There must be a reason for their conspicuous absence, and surely they'd return eventually, and help her plan the rescue mission. 

Her sleep that night was troubled, her morning at Baker Street and her familiar routine at work overshadowed by a sense of limbo, of waiting for the last page to turn. 

Mrs Hudson returned after several days, but the normally cheery old lady had given Molly a look full of pain before turning slowly away and closing herself into her own flat. Molly sighed. She knew Mrs Hudson must have been warned by Mycroft's people to stay away from her. Underneath Molly's empathy for poor Mrs Hudson, she vaguely wondered whether she ought to pay the rent; the first of the year was just around the corner. 

New Year's Eve began like any other day. She'd taken the undesirable evening shift, as was her wont; just now she was alone in the morgue, getting caught up on paperwork, when a nearby computer flickered to life. That was strange; she knew she'd turned the monitor off earlier. She slid off her stool to investigate, but stopped in her tracks when a ghastly image appeared on the screen. 

“Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?...”

Panic seared through her to see that face, to hear that voice, even distorted as it was. She was frozen to the spot for just one moment, then she moved to yank the computer's plug away from the wall. Her brain kept spinning even as the monitor sparked out. 

He was dead, Jim was dead. She'd been so relieved to hear it, those few years ago...She'd cringed to remember his hands on her, his mouth, after she'd learned who he really was, that he'd used her to get to Sherlock. 

Used her...to get to Sherlock.

All the breath left her lungs. She wasn't safe. She needed to hide. He'd be coming after her, to rectify his mistake. She couldn't call Sherlock. She'd call Lestrade, ask him to help her...Molly pulled out her phone and dialed. 

_Call failed,_ she read on her screen. 

Not for the first time, Molly cursed the dead zone in this basement. She caught up her handbag, made sure her portable mini-scalpel was still inside, and left the morgue. 

She made for the cafeteria, her phone to her ear as she walked. She'd go where there were people, make it harder for any pursuers to abduct her. There were always people coming and going in the cafeteria, even on New Year's Eve....

But the halls were oddly empty. The lights were on as usual, but she saw fewer and fewer people around as she walked, and no one at all in the cafeteria. Fear grew in her belly, and her eyes flicked from side to side as she backed out of the big room. This wasn't right. 

And then she saw a man in a dark suit rounding the corner, his empty eyes focused on her. Molly froze for one instant, then turned and ran. Glancing behind her, she saw that the man was still walking steadily in her direction. 

But a different man with the same fixed expression was now coming toward her down a different hallway, converging on her position. She yelped in fear, and by pure instinct she bolted for the lab, the place that was closest, the place she knew best. There was glassware, she knew where the caustic chemicals were, and there were other things she could throw....

No one on the stairs, no one in the hallway. She dialed Lestrade again as she ran. 

“Molly!” That rough voice was so welcome in her ear. “I saw it too---”

“Oh, thank god,” Molly sobbed, her voice unsteady as she continued to jog. “People—two men---coming after me,” she said, looking over her shoulder, but seeing no one. “I'm at Barts, the lab, second floor, south side. I need help---oh, please---” 

“I'll bring help right away. I'll come myself. Hold on, Molls.” And Lestrade rang off to call in his people. But she knew, grimly, that the police would not come soon enough. 

Molly tried to wedge shut the door behind her with a chair, the old trick, and then she darted aside to be out of view of the door's small window. But then the two men were there, and they quickly pushed through. The chair skidded and fell to the floor as they entered the lab. Molly cringed in the far corner of the room, her eyes locked on the two men.

“You can put down that flask,” the first man told her flatly. “We were sent by Mr Holmes. Mycroft Holmes. He ordered us in as soon as he saw the signal. We're to keep you safe from Moriarty's people until Sherlock Holmes arrives.”

“Sherlock...?” Molly's heart leapt, and she cautiously lowered the flask of hydrochloric acid. 

“Yes,” the other man said. “Sherlock is on his way. It's been confirmed. Now that Moriarty is back, Mycroft's plans have changed. We're to wait for Sherlock here.” He glanced at his partner. 

And even through her joy, her sudden rush of hope, Molly felt a glimmer of fear. There was something about these men...

She set down the flask and looked at them again, carefully, affecting an expression of excitement as well as she could. Both men were of medium height, utterly nondescript, their matching suits of middling quality and fit. But the two suits looked brand new, the steel buttons shiny, their thread unworn. 

Both of them wore an earpiece, just as she'd expect to see on MI6 men. But Molly saw with growing dismay that the two earpieces were of different models; one was considerably older, and neither fit the men's ears very well. She looked at their hands. Scarred. Bitten, dirty nails. The edge of an old, crude tattoo peeking out beyond a crisp white cuff.

Taken together, the signs...These men had surely not been sent by Mycroft. Molly was in terrible trouble, and so, she realised with dawning terror, was Sherlock.

And worse yet, both men were staring back at her with narrowed eyes. Her expression...she'd been too obvious. 

But just at that moment, Molly's phone rang. The sound echoed jarringly off the hard surfaces of the lab.

One of the men opened his jacket, pulled a handgun. “Get out your phone,” he ordered, and pointed the dead black opening of the barrel at Molly's head. “Take the call. Put it on speaker. Answer normally, or you die.”

Trembling, Molly obeyed, putting both hands in her handbag. She forced her shaking fingers to swipe open her phone and tap the icon that would project the caller's voice through the external speaker. Glancing up at the man, who was drawing closer with that gun, Molly drew a breath and said, as steadily as she could, “Hello?”

“Molly!” said the beautiful voice she knew she'd hear. She closed her eyes in misery. “Are you all right? Where are you? At Bart's?”

The gun was in her face now, and the man's eyes burned into Molly's. He gave a jerk of his head. 

“Yes, I'm at Bart's. In...in the lab. Oh, Sherlock, I'm so scared,” she said, and gasped when the man showed his teeth in a silent snarl and pressed the barrel against her forehead, forcing her head back an inch. Molly nearly dropped the phone, but held onto it with the tips of her fingers. Her mouth opened wide, but she closed her throat to choke off her scream.

“We're still a few minutes away. The sound...are you on speaker? Who's with you?” Sherlock said. 

“I'm...I'm alone,” Molly bit out, thinking as quickly as she could. She could tell him now, shout at him to run. She could die for him. Die right here, and keep Sherlock out of Moriarty's trap. 

But no, Molly thought as she stared back into the man's cold, blank eyes. She wouldn't barter away her life like this, play into Moriarty's game. She refused to die, refused to give up just as Sherlock was on his way back to her. There had to be a way---a way to warn him---

“Molly, you sound strange.” Sherlock's voice had taken on a sharp edge, just as it did when he was ordering her to her knees. And then, she had it. 

“Get it through your skull, Sherlock,” she said. “I'm fine. See you in two minutes. Call you back if there's a problem. All right?”

The tiniest pause. “All right,” Sherlock said quietly. “I'll see you very soon, Molly.” And he rang off. 

The man pulled the gun back from her head, but stayed close beside her. The other man had taken out his own handgun and was covering the door. 

Long minutes passed in silence, the time uncountable. A terrible calm settled over Molly's mind. Sherlock would come through that door, the only door. Surely the man would put the gun to her head again; Molly herself would be a liability in the final moment. She wondered whether she ought to try something...duck out of the way? Or...Molly slipped her hand into her pocket. 

In the next second the window in the door was spitting glass, and the man by the door tottered, then dropped heavily to the ground. Numbly, Molly looked over to see the round hole in the man's forehead. A drop of blood appeared. _Cause of death, GSW to centre forehead, just left of midline,_ said a detached, faraway voice in Molly's mind. 

Dimly, she heard the man beside her yelling, saw him lurch toward the door with his gun raised. And Molly took her scalpel out of her pocket, took one quiet step forward, and drove it with clinical precision through his jugular vein.

Blinking, the man turned toward her, his hand going to his neck. Blood---dark, venous blood---bubbled thickly through his fingers and soaked into his white shirt. He goggled at her, seeming not to notice when she grasped the wrist of his gun hand and drew it down, away from the door. And then the man dropped like a stone at her feet, his blood spraying over her shoes. 

Suddenly, Sherlock was there, leaping into the room, with John Watson right behind him, army-issue gun at the ready. Sherlock took no notice of the corpse by the door, but stopped short to see Molly standing over the other man, whose blood had already pooled well out onto the linoleum. 

A second later, Sherlock had vaulted the countertop and was next to Molly, enfolding her, crushing her against his body. Molly drew a long, shaky breath, then howled into his coat. 

“Molly, Molly,” Sherlock was saying against her hair, his voice broken. “You're all right. I-I have you now. My Molly.” 

“Oh, Jesus...Jesus, Molly, did you do this?” John bent to tug open the man's eyelid, check for a carotid pulse. “He's gone. Cheers, Molly, never thought you'd be the one for this---”

“Of course she was, John,” Sherlock snapped, his voice carrying a note of hysteria. “This is Molly Hooper, have you met her? Not precisely a fainting flower---”

“Sherlock.” She did feel faint, and clutched at him with bloody hands. “They were already there when you called...they told me to say those things...” 

“I know,” he murmured. “I got your message, heard your warning. You were so brilliant, so brave for me. God, I love you.” 

“You're home,” she cried, cradling his dear, precious face, so warm and real between her hands. “You came back.” 

“Mycroft has pronounced that England needs me,” he told her, lifting her chin with one hand. 

“Because of Moriarty,” she said. “But Sherlock...you should have waited for the police! Not jumped through the door. You could have been shot...again...”

“But you protected me, Molly. Again. That makes three times now that you've saved my life.”

“Three times?” Molly blinked at him with wet eyes, but he wasn't listening.

“What's more, there was a bit of leeway. I calculated,” Sherlock went on, “that they would hesitate to shoot. That they had strict orders to take me alive.” Sherlock's eyes were cold as they flickered to the corpse at their feet. Sherlock moved away from Molly and reached down to search the body.

“Ah,” said Sherlock. He came back up, holding a small syringe full of a cloudy, brownish liquid. “See, Molly?” 

“Sherlock,” John said from the floor, an odd urgency in his voice. “That's heroin.” 

“I know,” Sherlock replied, and flung the syringe, hard, into the metal sink. Molly heard the tinkle of breaking glass, and shared John's exhale. 

Sherlock drew Molly close again as John stepped over to examine the first man's body. “Yup. This one's dead,” John said after a moment, and stood back. “Possible to survive a bullet to the brain, but not today. No exit wound. Looks like the bullet bounced around inside. Brain got a bit...stirred.”

“Nice shot,” Sherlock told John. “Again.” And the two men shared a grim smile. 

Noise, shouting from the corridor. “Ah, here comes Lestrade,” John said rather sourly, looking over his shoulder. “Never did sort that gun license. No avoiding the court case this time.” 

“Oh, not to worry, John. Even if 'the British Government' were ever to allow this to go to trial, witnesses would testify that you shot him for queen, country, and Molly. Though perhaps not in that order. Ah, Lestrade,” Sherlock said as the DI rushed into the room with several armed officers. “Timely arrival as usual. Molly and John had already got things well under control here, thank you for making an appearance, best to do so for the look of the thing.”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” Lestrade snapped. “I'm glad you're back, mate, but I could do with a break from the attitude just now. You've left a right mess for me to clean up.”

“Oh, probably.” Sherlock shrugged, holding Molly a little closer. “But as you can see, my Molly has had a nasty scare, so I'm just going to take her home. Mycroft tells me he has already secured Baker Street, with real, actual MI6 security this time.” He hustled Molly toward the door. “Ta, Lestrade, must be going, call you later. Lots to attend to, England to save, you'll understand.” 

And just like that, they were halfway down the hall with John in tow, leaving the DI heaving a sigh of deep suffering. For her part, Molly held onto Sherlock's waist, tremulously returning his fond smile as they left the building together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Still not the end! More coming soon!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter. *cries a little* I've loved writing this story so, so much. 
> 
> ...Thank you so much to my lovely betas Liathwen and Miz-Joely, and to my valiant Brit-pickers Aberlioness and Faye-Tale! You guys are the greatest!
> 
> And to all you beautiful, generous, patient readers who have given me so many comments and such eloquent encouragement...this story literally would not exist without you. Thank you from the bottom of my dorky lil heart :)

“Well, I need to get back to Mary, so I'll leave you two here,” John told them both when they reached Baker Street. “Sherlock...mate, it's brilliant to have you back. I think. Yes.” 

For once, Sherlock had no witty retort. The two men shared a silent moment, then clasped hands. Molly smiled to see their faces in the glow of the streetlight. John gave Molly a nod, then turned away toward the Baker Street tube station. 

“Will they be---” Molly started, looking after John's retreating back. 

“Safe? Don't worry about John and Mary,” Sherlock said. “They take care of themselves. Usually. Besides, Mycroft has a security detail on all of us now. Look there, and there.”

Sherlock pointed, and Molly spied watchers atop the buildings opposite, silhouetted against the dark sky. “We're safe here at Baker Street, more than anywhere. You'll have your own bodyguards. We'll work out the particulars later. And I'll soon sort Moriarty. This time,” Sherlock said quietly, “I'll kill him myself.” 

“Oh, Sherlock,” she cried, “why does it have to be you?” 

But the haunted look in his eyes gave her pause. He'd lost his last shred of innocence. Killing had changed Sherlock. But what had he become?

For that matter, she had just killed a man. An armed man, who had been about to pull the trigger on John, Sherlock, or both. As they walked up the pavement, Molly weighed the act in silence. It did not matter that Mycroft would shelter her from any enquiry; she'd still have to live with the deed. But how did her crime, if crime it was, differ from Sherlock's? She needed to understand what he'd done.

“Sherlock,” Molly ventured as he keyed open the front door and ushered her inside, “What happened that night? And after? It's been days.” 

“First things first, my Molly,” Sherlock said. His hand closed over hers, and he pulled her up the stairs. “Since last I saw you, I've done murder, spent a week in solitary custody, and nearly been extradited for a delayed execution. Then I saw my arch-nemesis return and went nearly out of my mind when you were in danger. Not to mention, I endured Christmas Day at the family cottage.” 

Sherlock banged open the door to the sitting room, hurriedly unwound Molly's scarf and tossed her coat aside, along with his own. “I require relief from you, more than I've ever required it before.” He threaded his fingers into her hair.

But Molly reached up and slowly pulled his hand away from her head. “I thought I was going to die, earlier, Sherlock. Then I killed someone. I'm...rather sick over it all, actually, so I...don't think I'm in the mood. Sorry.” 

Sherlock sagged. “I see. Well, I'll build up the fire. You have questions.” 

When flames were leaping in the grate, Sherlock stood, tall and lean against the warm light from the hearth. “Come sit on the sofa with me,” he said, extending a hand, “and I'll tell you what I can.” 

Sherlock lay down on the sofa and pulled her atop him, careless of the blood still on her shoes. Then he stroked Molly's hair as he told her of the confrontation with Magnussen, his own terrible miscalculation, and the moments that had followed. 

“He was unarmed, Molly. It was nothing like what you did today. It was purely murder. But, Molly, I don't regret shooting him. He was an evil man, and he needed to be put down.” Sherlock's voice was steady and even, with an icy edge, and in spite of the warmth of his body, Molly felt a chill. 

“But I should have killed him earlier,” Sherlock continued bitterly. “Worked up my nerve faster, fled the scene before Mycroft could arrive. Given my brother some scrap of plausible deniability to work with. I'd already bought off Magnussen's security to get John's gun into his house. We could have worked something out there. But I hesitated. By the time I was resolved, Mycroft's people had arrived, and it was too late.”

“You hesitated,” Molly said, “before committing murder.” She swallowed, then stroked his warm chest. “If you had to do it, and I'm trusting that you did, Sherlock, at least you thought about it first. Though...perhaps that makes it worse.” She spoke that last in a bare whisper. 

He gave an impatient exhale. “Perhaps. There was a time when I would have either killed him immediately, or not seen the point of it at all.”

“Before John,” Molly whispered. 

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, turning to look in her eyes. “And before you.”

He went on to tell her about being handcuffed and tossed into a helicopter, hustled into an unknown facility with a bag over his head, and left in a cell for many hours before being visited by Mycroft. The general public was still in the dark about the identity of the murderer, Mycroft had told him, but there had been too many witnesses for the truth to be kept from the ears of those who mattered. His brother had given him a choice: to face trial, or to accept the fatal assignment. 

“The choice was clear. I already knew my life was forfeit, in one way or another.” Sherlock said. “Standing trial would have meant exposing my reasons for killing Magnussen, and Molly, I can't even tell that to you.”

“Yes. You're protecting John and Mary, so you can't talk about it. I trust you,” Molly said, deciding once and for all that yes, she did. 

What was that odd thing that Mary said on the day she'd come to Sherlock for help? Something about hacking into the CCTV network. Unusual skills for a nurse. Surely there was something...But Molly held her tongue. She would not pry into the secrets Sherlock had bartered his life to protect. 

“So what will this mean for you now?” Molly asked, her fingers toying with one of his shirt buttons. “I mean, when Moriarty is...well, when you've sorted it all out. Will you have to leave again? Will Mycroft...”

“Is this merely a stay of execution, you mean?” Sherlock exhaled heavily and held her even closer. “I don't know, Molly. Perhaps if I dispatch Moriarty quickly, I'll be given a pardon. For services to queen and country, if not for good behaviour.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “But Molly...I honestly do not know what will happen, after.”

“If you are sent away...Sherlock, take me with you,” Molly told him, her fist tightening against his shirt. 

“No. Never. Do you have the slightest notion of what could happen to you out there, in that world?” he said quietly, with a frigid, truly dangerous note in his voice that she'd never heard before. But Molly lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. 

“I'll follow you. You can't stop me.”

“I can. And I will. I won't discuss it any further, Molly. But,” he said with a twist of his mouth, “I will admit that I'm rather...well. What you said...it was...good.” He blinked. “Thank you.” 

“Oh, Sherlock,” Molly said with a sigh. Ridiculous man. But Sherlock's stiffness was nothing, she reminded herself, next to his ice-hearted brother...

“Mycroft...Sherlock, Mycroft tried to keep John from telling me what was going on,” Molly bit out. 

“Oh, I know. I overheard that,” Sherlock muttered. 

"Then he threatened me so I would stay silent, Sherlock. And he kept me in the dark about where you were, what was happening to you.” Molly clenched a fist over Sherlock's chest. “And where he would have sent you...Sherlock, if Mycroft were to appear in this room right now, I'd punch him in his smug face.” She trembled, the tears stinging her sore eyes once more. 

“And I'd take the second swing,” Sherlock said darkly. “And then I'd tell our mother what he'd done to me, and to you. I might, yet.”

“Well, Sherlock, your mum wouldn't mind about me,” Molly said, with a watery smile.

“On the contrary,” Sherlock told her, “she'd mind very much. She knows all about you, of course. Mum and Dad were delighted to hear I'd 'finally got a bird,' as she put it.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his fingers were stroking her face. “She informed me that I'll be bringing you 'round, Molly. To the cottage, for a long weekend. You'll adore each other, I'm afraid. Inevitable. But happily you'll gain half a stone eating all her roasts and fruit pies and cream teas every day. I always do.”

And Molly found herself with nothing to say. Sherlock was going to bring her to meet his mum and dad. They had been pleased merely to hear of her. His mum would love her---inevitably, Sherlock said. After all the death and fear, after everything, life would still continue. 

The winter skies were clearing; the clouds were scudding away and leaving only a sky full of stars in Molly's heart. 

“Do you know,” Sherlock said into her hair, “that my plane had only just left the runway when Moriarty returned?”

Molly came slowly back to earth, and frowned. “Really? Sherlock...that timing...” 

“I agree,” Sherlock said quietly. “Surely no coincidence. It's all meant for me, Molly. I'll be going into battle yet again. This is what my life is, my love.”

“I know, Sherlock. I could never hold you back from what you need to do. Just...be careful.” She laid a hand tenderly on his cheek.

“I will,” he promised. And they lay together for a long while, just resting, in the dark room that was lit only by flickering firelight, on this, the last night of the year.

Presently, Molly stirred and spoke. “Sherlock. What you said on the phone that night. About your will, and how it would have been better if you'd married me...”

“Yes, my Molly?” Sherlock pulled in his chin to look down into her face. Under her ear, Molly felt his heart begin to beat faster. 

“Well...I just want you to know that I don't look on what you said then as a promise. You thought you were speaking to me for the last time,” Molly said, reaching up to stroke his temple. “But now you're back, and we're still so new together. And even though I'm to meet your mum and dad, and all...I don't want to move too quickly, Sherlock.”

“But we've known each other so long,” he said, his brow furrowing. 

“It's different when you're actually in a relationship. Let's just...let's just move ahead, enjoy each other, and see what happens, yeah? We have time.” 

Sherlock looked at her carefully, then nodded. “All right,” he agreed. “Yes, we have time. I will make sure of it.”

“I do love you, Sherlock,” she told him. “I have done for so long...and I can't imagine not loving you.” And yielding to impulse, she leaned in and kissed him, hard.

Sherlock gave a sharp gasp against her mouth that made her heart skip a beat. “Molly,” he said, jerking her against him. “You beautiful, precious, impossible thing.”

“Oh, Sherlock...” The roughness of his touch awakened something in Molly, a burn in her heart and deep in her belly. She lifted her chin to him, let her fingers grasp his shirt collar. “Now. Please. Yes.”

“Oh, little woman. You make me feel...I need...On your feet, Molly,” he said firmly, the tone in his voice sharpening between one instant and the next. “And strip off for me. I'm going to take you now.”

He gave her a push with his hips to nudge her off the sofa. A beatific smile spread across her face. Oh, how she loved him, and how she adored their games. 

Bouncing up off the sofa, she walked to the door and locked it. Mrs Hudson was not at home, was surely at some New Year's Eve party, but still...

When she turned back to Sherlock, he'd propped one long leg up on the back of the sofa, folded his arms behind his head, and settled in to watch her remove her clothes. That cool smile on his face...that face she thought she'd never see again...

“Oh, Sherlock,” Molly cried, her heart welling over. She bent down to kiss him, but he held up a hand. She froze. 

“You're being very bad indeed, my girl. You're doing everything but taking your clothes off for me, as ordered.” Sherlock smirked. “Do you want a spanking?”

“Yes,” she cried, not caring, needing to kiss that face right this moment. She lunged over him, taking his mouth with a whimper, covering him with kisses. Sherlock enfolded her, his laughter sweet and so deep in his chest, heavenly. Then he was pushing her away. 

“I bet you'd love for me to put you right over my knee, naughty thing. Rip down your knickers. Give you what you deserve. But I'm not so easily manipulated, and bad girls don't get what they want,” he said, with that irrepressible grin. “Now...strip. Quickly.”

Shivering a little, Molly obeyed him, unbuttoning and unclasping with fingers that shook. Piece by piece, all of Molly's clothes dropped to the floor at her feet. Finally, she stepped out of her knickers and looked up expectantly, but Sherlock was suddenly looking very displeased...glowering at her. 

A moment of confusion, and then she remembered. Reaching up, Molly removed all the pins that held her heavy bun in place, letting them drop one by one on the floor with a gentle tinkle. When her hair finally uncoiled and fell around her shoulders, Molly lifted her chin proudly to see Sherlock's warm smile. 

“Very good, my darling,” he told her. “You almost forgot, didn't you. But I love to have all that hair flowing loose. It's not only beautiful,” he purred, getting to his feet, “but also useful. A handle for me to guide you by.” He gathered all her hair into one large hand and pulled, so gently, and bent down over her for a deep kiss. Molly sighed against his mouth.

It was magic, what he did to her. She was already so very wet for him, glowing down between her legs. He'd hardly touched her so far, only talked to her, but that was all it took to reduce her to this state of quivering need. Most of her other partners were dim memories, their attentions so gentle, so bland. But, Molly knew now, gentleness was sweetest when one could feel the power leashed behind it, and the capacity to use that power at any moment.

Sherlock's other hand was busy with his own shirt buttons, flicking them open impatiently. He released her hair to struggle out of his shirt, flinging it aside, kicking away his trousers along with everything else. Then his silky flesh was against hers, so warm, so dear. Molly twined her arms around his neck and gasped to feel those big hands stroking down her back to cup her arse, that straining cock hot against her belly. 

“God, Molly. I missed you so much.” Sherlock pulled her backward to the sofa once more, sitting down and pulling her into his lap. “When I was in the cell, I couldn't stop thinking of you. Of the way your nipples feel in my mouth,” he said, lowering his head to catch the peaks of her breasts between those plush lips, one after the other, letting her feel teeth, making her yelp. “That desperate look in your eyes when your little pussy is hurting for me to take you, fill you. The way you smell, my Molly, around your neck, under your arms, down here between your legs. So female, so perfect.” 

Sherlock's hand slid over her belly, over her soft patch of hair, as she parted her legs to invite him, rather shyly still, even after all this time. Helpless, Molly keened as she felt those long fingers slide deep into her cunt. 

“Oh, Molly. I couldn't get you out of my brain then, even if I'd cared to try. Your voice in my head, your wise words...you were all that kept me sane sometimes, during those long days of nothingness, of just waiting...” His voice hitched. “But it hurt too, so much. I thought I'd never see you again.”

“Sherlock,” Molly murmured, shivering in earnest now as he worked her with fingers and thumb. She cuddled against his warmth. 

“Cold, I see. So soft, you. Let's take you over to the fire, my girl,” Sherlock said, and suddenly he was lifting her, bearing her over to the merrily crackling hearth, where, she now saw, he had readied her sheepskin. 

And he laid her down in front of that fire, down into that thick woolen softness, and kissed her lingeringly from mouth, to neck, to breasts, to belly, to wet little pussy. Molly arched her back as that long tongue curled against her clit and lashed her without mercy. His hands caught her under her knees, then pulled her legs up so that her hips were lifted, her swollen folds pulled up tight. Sliding his mouth once more against her, Sherlock pierced her with his tongue. Molly let out a low cry.

“Molly,” Sherlock said against her, the vibrations of his voice on her pussy sending delicious shivers up her back. “Do you remember that night in the lab, when I touched you for the first time?” 

“How could I forget?” Molly sighed, sliding her fingers through those dark curls, looking down at his ice-coloured eyes as he laid his cheek against her thigh. 

“Were you afraid of me then?” he asked, the firelight playing over his face.

“You know the answer, Sherlock...no. I was never afraid of you.”

“You placed so much trust in me that night. I was audacious in the extreme, but you took everything I gave you, took my breath away. But if you had only known what filthy thoughts were in my mind when I had you bent over the countertop...with your little knickers pulled down and your bottom exposed, oh god.” Sherlock gave a gasp, his eyes feral with desire. “I was burning for you. Longing to torment and lick that pretty pink arse. To shove you down and fuck you every which way. To make you scream and cry.”

“Sherlock...” Molly had no words. He was looming over her, inexorably pressing his body down over hers. He caught her wrists, pulled them up over her head and held them against the sheepskin with his weight. Molly struggled, testing his strength. His hands might as well have been made of steel. 

“And now I've done all those things,” he growled. “And I intend to keep doing them. And far more. Forever. For as long as you'll let me...Oh, Molly, what a bad girl you turned out to be.”

Molly moaned, spreading her legs expectantly, needing him to take her, to penetrate the centre of her longing. But Sherlock smiled darkly, his eyes glinting in the fireglow. 

“Show me,” he purred against her mouth, “how much you want my cock.” 

Dazed, Molly glanced down. His cock was red and drooling with need, and yet he was holding his hips up away from hers. Molly curled her toes into the sheepskin and groaned aloud. “Please, Sherlock. Please.”

“Please what, little Molly?” He dipped his head, nipped sharply at her neck. Molly jerked with the pain of it, and lifted her hips up off the sheepskin, reaching for him. 

“Please fuck me. Please, sir.” Molly pushed her hips higher, as far as she could, her thighs beginning to quiver with tension. She whimpered, desperation making her voice high and thin. “Please, I need you. I'll do anything. Please. Please fuck me.”

“Begging for me, yes,” Sherlock said, tossing back his curly head in exultation. “You'll do anything, will you? Oh yes, Molly, I'll fuck you. On one condition.” He lowered his chin until his eyes were in shadow, mere sparks in pools of blackness. 

“Anything, anything,” Molly pleaded. “I'm yours. Please.” She was almost in pain with her longing, with the strain of her predicament.

“I want to take you to our country manor. In the summer. After Moriarty falls, after all this is over,” Sherlock said, his voice dark with command. “Just the two of us, and special household staff to tend to our needs. I want to lock away every stitch of your clothing. I want to put a jeweled collar around your pretty neck, so that all can see you're mine.”

“Oh god, Sherlock,” Molly gasped. “Yes. Yes.”

Sherlock's breath was coming in heavy pants, his lips twitching into a snarl. “You'll follow me everywhere, kneel beside me. Fetch and carry, pour my drinks. And you'll wear a plug in your bottom, and be properly clamped and trussed, whenever I wish it. So you'll be always ready. For me to use you.”

“Yes, of course, yes. Oh, please.” Molly was beside herself, delirious with lust, his words painting a picture in her head of warm days spent at his feet, beside her Sherlock's chair, reveling in his mastery, his constant attention. Little slave girl, so willing for him, tending so diligently to his every, every need.

“Oh, good girl,” Sherlock breathed. “You please your master so well. I'll train you properly, my love. And you'll adore every moment of it. But for now, I'll give you your reward.”

And Sherlock lowered his hips and dragged the shaft of his cock down her pussy; Molly crooned in delight. She felt the tip of him catch into the valley of her core, and then Sherlock leaned inward, downward, pushing inside, pressing her hips deep into the sheepskin once more. His belly slid against hers, cool with sweat, his body all beautiful skin and lean power, the warm weight of him pushing the breath out of her.

Oh, that sweet pressure, that driving force, piercing her wetness and filling her ache. Molly wound her legs around his hips, locking him against her. She ground back against his cock, greedily, crying out when he gave her the first brutal thrust.

“My Molly,” he said, finally releasing her wrists to hold her face between his hands. “My own.” He braced an elbow, then drove relentlessly into her, again, again, and Molly lifted her voice in a rising wail. She clutched at his shoulders, urging him to give her more, more, she was almost there...

With a knowing smirk, Sherlock angled his hips and twisted against her pussy, grinding his pelvis against her clit, and Molly wavered, trembling, at the very edge. He paused, watching her trembling there, for a long moment. Then he gave her a final hard push, and she fell. 

Warmth flooded her, sweetness overwhelmed her, pulsing in rhythm with her racing heart. She cried out softly, time and again. Sherlock's breath was hot against her throat, his body shuddering as he reached down to grip her hips tightly. She felt him lose control inside her, spilling and spilling, his shout too loud beside her head, the click of his teeth coming together near her ear as he ground out a last, deep moan. 

Molly breathed under him, drinking in the clean scent of his body. She slipped her arms around his broad back, her fingertips sliding down the sweat-slick groove of his spine. 

“My Sherlock,” Molly whispered, cradling his back, rocking him gently, her heart brimming with tenderness for this singular man, her master in the bedroom, her equal in life, her own Sherlock Holmes. 

“Molly. I never knew I could feel the way you've taught me to feel.” That black-velvet voice was tight with perplexity, with wonder. “And being inside you...” He lifted his face, brushed a strand of wet hair out of her eyes. “After everything, being inside you is like being home.” 

“Oh, Sherlock. You're my heart. Always.” She watched his eyes close, watched the firelight play over the soft glimmer of his eyelids, the shadow of his lashes. Then he pressed his mouth to hers, and Molly let her eyes slide shut.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To answer the question before you ask...no, I won't be writing about Winter!lock's confrontation with Moriarty. Sorry, darlings. 
> 
> ...but yes, oh YES my dirty dears, I WILL be writing all about what these beautiful babies get up to at the Holmes Manor. Oh yes. It will be multichapter. And a casefic. *cackles, steeples fingers* So. Much. Naughtiness. 
> 
> Thank you one million times for reading! Come play on Tumblr if you like ;)


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